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TEMPE VALE 



Other Poems 



JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS 



33 



The song's of dead seasons, that wander 

On -wings of articulate "words ; 
Lost leaves that the shore-Tvitid may squander. 

Light flocks of untamable birds ; 
Some sang to me dreaming in class-time. 

And truant in hand as in tongue ; 
For the youngest -were born of boy's pastime. 

The eldest are young. 

SWINBURNE. 



CHICAGO 

CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY 

17s Dearborn Street 

iSSS 




x.-i'-l'^ 



-f6 



Copyright, i8SS 
By James N. Matthews 



DEDICA TION. 

TO THE 

MEMORY OF MY FATHER ^ MOTHER, 

AND TO 

My Fairest Critic, My Wife, 

This little book is lovingly inscribed. 

J. N. M. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Proem — The Spirit of Poetry, .... 9 

Tempe Vale, 11 

A Legend Beautiful, 15 

The City of Snow, 16 

A Dream of Beauty, 17 

The Death of the Baby, 19 

November Down the Wabash, .... 21 

The Old Mill, 23 

Alone at the Farm, 26 

Her Knitting Needles, 28 

To the March Moon, 30 

A Dream, 32 

A Sea-weed, 33 

There is no Luck about the House ... 35 

Genius, 37 

A Nocturne, 38 

My Guest, 40 

A Vision, . . . . «... 44 

The First Gray Hair, 45 

Edison, 47 

The Vale of Gold, 49 

The Crime, 51 

March, 53 

She Sleeps, ... . . •, , 54 

'Way Down in Spice Valley, 57* 

A Fragment, 60 

(5) 



6 CONTENTS. ' 

PAGE. 

The Old House-fly, . • 61 

Insomnia, 66 

They had no Poet and so They Died, . . .67 

At Waterloo, 69 

Gaun Hame, 70 

A Ballad of Tears, 71 

July in the "West. 73 

Illinois, . 75 

The Eyes of Eleanor a, 78 

O, Bleak is the Night, 80 

A Burden of Babylon, 83 

Behind the Veil, 83 

Day and Night, 86 

One Golden Hair, 87 

In Summer Woods, 89 

Severed Friendship, 91 

My Lady Beautiful, 93 

In Soudan, 94 

Out on the Farm, 95 

The Old Fire-place, 90 

Joukydaddles, 100 

To a Terrapin, 103 

A Profile of Fall, 104 

A Valentine, 107 

'Tis Always Sunday in the Woods, . . . 108 

Lines in an Album, 110 

When Your Father went to War, . . . .111 

An Invocation, 118 

A Ballade of Busy Doctors, 120 

Goodnight and Joj be with you All, . . 133 

Shakespeare, 134 

The Soldier of Castile, .... 126 

Her Feet on the Fender, . . , . . 131 

The Old Village Depot, 133 

Indian Summer 136 

Lady Laura in the North, 139 



CONTENTS. 7 

PAGE. 

Meadows of Gold, 142 

At Uncle Reuben Ragan's, .... 144 

The Night you Quoted Burns to Me, . . . 148 

The Mystery of Harrington Meadows, . . 150 

When I am Old, 154 

The Passing of the Old Year, .... 156 

An Extravagant Simile, .... 157 

The Pioneers, 159 

Taking in the Hammock 169 

At Christmas Eve, ...... 170 

The Old Major Speaks 171 

A Garland for the Dead, . .- . . 174 

The Foolish Mariners, 177 



BONNETS AND RONDEAUX. 

To a Sleeping Boy, 183 

A Night in June, 184 

When I Come Home, 185 

At Milking Time, 186 

October, 187 

November, . 188 

Where Willie Was, 189 

In Days to Come, 190 

Christmas Morning, 191 

Doom, ........ 192 

Rondeaux of Remembrance, . . . 193 

John A. Warder, 195 

A Bluebird in January, 196 

Could She but Know, 197 

Could Love do More, 198 

My Favorite Poem, 199 

What is Death, 200 



TEE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

She steers the stars through Heaven's azure 
deep; 
She lifts the leaden eyelids of the morn; 
On distant hills she winds the hunter'^s 
horn^ 
And wakes the lonely shepherd from his sleep; 
She scales the dizzy ledge where torrents leap, 
And hangs the hloom upon the bristling 

thorn; 
She sits for hours ^7^/ solitudes forlorn^ 
With downcast eyes, where hapless lovers 

weep. 
When Spring comes up the vale in Winter'^s 

trace, 
She plucks the blossom from the bud's em- 
brace; 
She binds the golden girdle round the bee. 
And lends the lily's luster to the pea; 
She curves the swallow's wing, and guides its 

flight. 
And tips the dewy meads with twinkling light. 

(9) 



10 THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 

She rides, she revels on the rushing storm, 
She suns her pinions on the 7'ainbow^s rim — 
She laves in mountain jpools her snowy 
limb. 

As sweetly chaste as Dian and as warm,' 

In summer fields she bares her blushing arm, 
And sings among the reapers. By the dim 
Light of autumnal moons,her tresses sioim 

On gales Lethean, with assuasive charm. 

Into the chamber of the alchemist 

She jpeers, or, through some half-closed 
lattice, sees 

Her lover by the xcanton night wind kissed. 
Anon, she walks the dim Hesperides, 

Or, mingling with the spirits of the mist, 
Dances at will along the darkling seas. 



IN TEMPE VALE. 

In Tempe vale the sun shines fair, 

O'er crystal streams forever flowing, — 
On Tempe's rainbow-girdled air 

The velvet-breasted flowers are blowing 
And up the valley, everywhere, 

The golden orange groves are glowing: — 
And violets uplift their eyes. 
Bewildered, to the stooping skies. 
Dreaming all day of Paradise; 

And blue-bells from the tufted sod, 
When darkness down Olympus dies, 

Out-stretch their pearly palms to God, 
And pour their fragrant sacrifice. 
And all the world is in a trance 
Along Peneus' blue expanse, 

In Tempe vale. 

In Tempe vale, no sound of wars 

Goes ever to the mild-eyed stars ; 

No lily's breast is tinged with blood. 

No dreamer from his rest is driven. 

But ever from the drowsy wood, 

There floateth to the jeweled heaven 
(11) 



13 /JV TBMPB VALE. 

Eternal lullabies, like those 
That murmur in the crimson rose; 
Or like the symphonies that break 
From out some lone enchanted lake; 
Or like the rhapsodies that quiver, 
By night, along some sacred river, — 
Ah, only holiest things of earth, 
Spring into beauty, and to birth 
In Tempe vale. 

In Tempe vale no bough is stirred. 

No winds are in the conscious tree; 
The only melodies there heard — 
Exce23t the trill of some wild bird. 
Or tumult of the tippling bee — 
Are those dim strains of minstrelsy 
That tingle to the twilight stars, 
From laughing lutes and low guitars, 

On many a Grecian lover's knee; 
And dark-eyed maids, with lips of wine. 
And limbs of snow, their tresses twine. 
By fountains flashing from the hills, 
And all the golden ether spills 
A summer splendor'round the vine. 
In Tempe vale. 



IN TEMPE VALE. 13 

In Tempe vale, in Tempe's bowers, 

The soul, intoxicate with bliss. 
Goes reeling through a world of flowers 

That hath no counterpart in this; 
And far beneath the lote-tree's shade, 

Where glow-worms glimmer in the grass, 
Is heard the lonely serenade 
Of some heart-broken nightingale; 

And dew-drops, like a sea of glass. 
Their love-lights up the valley trail, 

Until the night-tide shadows pass, 
And dajdight dawns o'er Tempe vale. 
O'er Tempe vale. 



In Tempe vale, they weave the dance. 
Along its lone, star-lighted river. 

By those wild grottos of romance 

O'er which the mellow citrons quiver. 
And laughing love lives on forever! 

Ah, nightly to the cithern's sigh, 

The Muses, from their haunts on high, 
Come tripping hither, every one, — 
And Pan, and young Endymion, 

And Dian, with her dapper crew, 
The piping shepherd-lads, and all 



14 IN TEMPE VALE. 

The Dryads o'er the mountain wall, 
Come thronging to the revel, too, 
In Tempe vale. 

To Tempe vale, along good-night! 

The glamour of my idle dream 
Is over-past. My waking sight, 

Alas ! is blinded to the gleam 
And beauty of that valley bright. 
Its blissful bowers no more I see, 

Its peaceful paths have passed from view. 
Yet down to the JEgean Sea, 

Still fall its winding waters blue. 
Still sings the bird, and hums the bee 

In every nook the dreamer knew. 
No summer-poet's fickle thought. 
On Fancy's pinions ever sought 
A spot with sweeter raptures fraught. 
Than Tempe vale. 



A LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 

'Twas thus the Dervish spake: "Upon our 
right, 
There stands, unseen, an angel with a pen, 
Who notes down each good deed of ours, 
and then 
Seals it with kisses in the Master's sight. 
Upon our left a sister-angel sweet 

Keeps daily record of each evil act. 
But, great with love, folds not the mournful 
sheet 
Till deepest midnight, when, if conscience- 
racked. 
We lift to Allah our repentant hands. 
She smiles and blots the record where she 

stands ; 
But if we seek not pardon for our sin. 
She seals it with a tear, and hands it in." 

(15) 



THE CITY OF SNOW. 

Silently, silently, all the night, 

Out in the fields, where the north winds blow, 
A shimmering army, robed in white, 

Is building the City of Snow. 

Hour after hour, their task they ply, 
Down where the roses used to grow. 

Piling the battlements steep and high 
Of the silent City of Snow. 

Out in the dark in the driving storm, 
To and fro, they glimmer and glow. 

All night, as their deft hands frame and form 
The mystic City of Snow. 

Never the sound of a hammer smites 
The milk-white silence, above or below, 

And dumber than dreams are the dapper 
sprites, 
That build the City of Snow. 

'Tis morn! and the labor is all complete, 
And the cold north wind has ceased to blow. 

And Vandal feet are abroad in the street 
Of the sinless City of Snow. 

(16) 



A DREAM OF BEAUTY. 



I muse on her dark eyes, and see the gloss 
Of dewy grapes that purple in the gloom 

Of amorous gardens, where the faint winds 
toss 
O'er violet reaches, panting with perfume ; 

A dream of fawns! peering with passionate 
glance 
Between the lindens, at mid-summer dawn, 
When love awakens, and desire is on, 

And piping robins hold the world in trance. 

II 

I dream of her dark hair, and feel the dusk 

Of cooling myrtles, in the twilight vales 
Of Tempe, when no mellowing moonbeams 
husk 

The shadows from the shifting nightingales; 
A vision of swift ravens, heading south 

Between pomegranate bonghs, amidst the 
hills 

Of Arcady, what time the summer spills 
Its kindling kisses on the lily's mouth. 

3 (17) 



18 A BREAM OF BEAUTY. 

Ill 

I sing of lier white hands — two dimpled 
sprites 
More tremulous, and stainless, and more 
soft 
Than rose-leaves opening in mid-snmmer 
nights, 
By moon-dawns, in the deepest woodland 
croft ; 
A vision of vain hopes ! a shimmering mist 
Of swan-down, cincturing each lovely limb 
Of Mab's hand-maidens, when the warm 
stars trim 
Their dewy tresses with pale amethyst. 

lY 
Then, fancying her love, I hear the coo 

Of doves, far-hidden in the citron groves 
Of Hellas, where the high gods came to woo, 
And change for mortal, their immortal 
loves ; 
A vision of the ripening south — a dream 
Of loveliness and passion, song and wine, 
And Greek girls lolling where the Bacchanal 
vine 
Tipples and sips the summer's amber beam. 



THE DEATH OF THE BABY. 

I 

Like a bird fljing out of its prison, 

Light-winged and alone. 
The soul of wee Robbie is risen, 

And heavenward flown. 

II 

Flown heavenward out of its anguish, 

Sweet motherless one ! 
Flown heavenward never to languish, 

As time weareth on. 

Ill 

As out of a lily's pale chalice 

The odor is blown. 
So, forth from the soul's snowy palace. 

The life-light is gone. 

IV 

As soft as the tinges of twilight 

Out-fade from the west. 
The baby sank into the skylight 

Of infinite rest. 

(19) 



20 THE DEATB OP TBE BABT. 
Y 

No longer his pink baby -fingers 

Outrival the flowers, 
No longer his baby -laugh lingers, 

And melts into ours. 

VI 

The cradle is empty and hollow, 

Forever and aye, 
The flight of wee Hobbie we'll follow, 

When beckoned away. 



NOVEMBER DOWN THE WABASH. 

Upon the Wabash hills, and down 

The lonesome glens, the leaves are brown 

With early frost, and gray birds skim 

The cooling waters, and the slim 

Ungartered willows stand, knee-deep 

Along the river's edge, and weep 

To see the Summer's parting gleam 

Pass, like a shadow, down the stream, 

Or like the memory of one 

We loved in youth, and doted on. 

Silence is on the Wabash hills, 
Save where a lonely blue-bird trills 
Upon the windy oak, or where 
The nuts drip from the branches bare. 
Or squirrels chatter in the sun ; — 
A hush, as if all life were done, 
Keigns thro' the woods ; the waters lie 
So dead and motionless, the sky 
Leans dolorously down, as though 
To meet its mirrored self below. 

(21) 



23 NOVEMBER DOWN THE WABASH. 

No boyish laughter pours along- 
The "Wabash hills. — no lover's song 
Re-echoes up the tangled ways, 
As in the long, glad summer days; 
No bare-foot lads, with hook and rod, 
Beside the shadowy waters plod, — 
No maids come down to twine and strew 
With valley-flowers, the old canoe, — 
Only a blind owl floating by, 
And far clouds driving up the sky. 

Thus, like a sombre shadow, broods 
. November, o'er the Wabash woods ; 
Far to the south, the slanting sun 
Has gone, and Winter soon will run 
His sledges up the frozen heights, — 
And grates will glow, and long dark nights 
Will trance the drowsy brain with dreams 
Of other days, — and fitful gleams 
Of Beauty will dissolve the gloom 
In seas of summer warmth and bloom. 



THE OLD MILL. 

The morning rose bright on the clover-clad 
hill, 
And lightly the breezes went by, 
As I took the old path leading down to the 
mill, 
That stood where the bluffs beetle hiffh; 
The path leading down by the steep to the 
strand. 
Where I loitered a lad in my mirth, 
When life was a beautiful rainbow that 
spanned 
The loveliest valley of earth. 

The blue-bird still swung on the sycamore 
boughs, 

The sand- piper rode on the wave, 
And still to the pebble-paved ford came the 
cows, 

At the noonday, to drink and to lave ; 
The dam was nigh down, yet the cataract fell 

O'er the ledge, with a plunge and a roar. 
That seemed to my heart, in its tumult, to tell 

Of the halcyon summers of yore. 

(23) 



24 THE OLD MILL. 

The rock was still there, where we dived in 
the tide, 
And the sands where we stretched in the 
sun. 
But the many gaj fellows that played at our 
side, 
Had gone from the valley, each one ; 
The old fishing-log it had floated away, 

And over the crumbling canoe. 
The paddles were locked, in a dream of decay 
Where the mold and the rank mosses grew. 

By the dust-girdled doorway, where gabbled 
the geese. 

And the pilfering swine used to stray, 
The grass had grown up in an emerald fleece, 

That lovingly mantled the way ; 
I saw not the brown little bare-footed maid 

Trip down the long path to the spring, 
I heard not the sound of her song in the glade, 

Nor the light-hearted laugh at the swing. 

The mill was as mute as the miller who lies 
In his green- curtained cot on the hill, — 



THE OLD MILL. 25 

And I thought, as the tears gathered into ray- 
eyes, 
That the dead had come back to the mill ; 
That I saw the old wagons roll up with their 
grist, 
And again heard the rumble and roar 
Of the wheels, — but, alas ! it was only a mist 
Falling over my senses, — no more! 

Ah, the dust-covered miller! near twenty long 
years 
Have flown, since he took his last toll; 
His heart, when he died, was as sound as his 
burrs, 
And as white as his flour, was his soul ; 
Still the wraith of him stands at the low 
batten-door. 
And his laughter comes back from the past; 
Still the sound of his footstep is heard on the 
floor, 
Tho' the mill's but a wreck in the blast. 



ALONE AT THE FARM. 

{Easter.) 

As I sit alone in the twilight gray, 

Under the sound of the April rain, 
Mj thoughts go back to an Easter day 
Of the long-ago, and I listen again, 
(But listen in vain!) 
For the shouts of the boys who used to 
swarm 
Out of the neighboring town, like plagues, 
To spend a glorious day at the farm. 

With the boys of the country, coloring 
eggs. 

And I, poor fool ! was as gruff as a bear. 
For I never could stand their noise — but 
Jane, 
Sweet soul! she always welcomed them there. 
With a love that her dear heart could not 
feign — 

(And the boys loved Jane !) 

(26) 



ALONE AT THE FARM. 37 

And many a time I heard her say 

(In the after-years ere she paled and died) 

That, God permitting, on Easter Day, 
She would clasp their hands on the other 
side. 

So the years went by, and the boys were 
grown. 
And the grass waved high in the orchard 
lane, — 
And down where the sounds of war were 
blown, 
The lads of the Easter-time lay slain ; 
And oh, the pain! 
And oh, the sobbing — the ceaseless moan — 

The long sad nights, and the vigils vain, 
Of an old man drooping and dreaming alone, 
Of days that never come back again ! 



nER KNITTING NEEDLES. 

In the bureau's bottom drawer, as I rum- 
maged there to-day, 
With the memory of other times aglow ; 
I found the knitting needles that my mother 
tucked away, 
In the twilight of a winter long ago,^ 
They were tangled in the fingers of a wee, un- 
finished glove, 
And when I stooped and touched them, it 
did seem, 
I could see the vanished features of the one 
I used to love, 
In the cheery chimney-corner of my dream. 

O, the little shining lances! how they glittered 
in the light, 
Of the cabin where my mother used to sit, 
In her cosy, cushioned rocker, till the middle 
of the night, 
A-crooning tender ditties as she knit; 

(28) 



HER KNITTING NEEDLES. 29 

And I feel my feet grow warmer, as I plod 
across the past, 
In the stockings that her white and holy 
hands 
In their feebleness had fashioned, ere she fell 
asleep at last, 
And was borne into the summer-litten lands. 

No trophies ever dangled in a mediseval hall 

More sacred for the memories they hold, 
Than these, the lowly relics of the saint that I 
recall. 
Thro' the twilight of the tender days of old: 
Each needle is a talisman, a token, a delight, 

A wand that hn^es my fancy unaware. 
From the prison of the present, and its shadow 
infinite, 
To my cabin home, and mother knitting 
there. 



TO THE MARCH MOOK. 

O moon of March! what seest thou 

But dead leaves, still? No bursting bud 
Breaks into bloom on anj bough, 

In all the bare, unbreathing wood. 
O sweet March moon ! 
Canst thou not woo the bloomy brood 

To don their kirtles, pink and w^hite, 
And, in the upland solitude. 

Come out to-night, come out to-night? 

O moon of March! come down, come down, 

Perchance a new Endymion lies 
On yonder hill, by yonder town. 

With peerless lips, and perfect eyes. 
O fair March moon! 
Forsake the dull eternal skies. 

For just a hasty swallow-flight, 
In answer to a lover's cries, — 

Come down to-night, come down to-night. 

O moon of March ! O lady moon. 

High-throned above the wreathing mist! 

(30) 



TO TEE MARCH MOON. 31 

Come down, in silver silken shoon, 

Come down with starlight round thy wrist, 
O pale March moon ! 

What tho' no shepherd keep his tryst, 
Like that sweet lad on Latmos' height, 

Yet there be "lips that should be kissed," 
Then come to-night, then come to-night. 

moon of March! so proud, so cold, 
If thus thou heedest not my prayer, 

1 dare to brand thee as a bold, 
Night-walking wanton of the air ; — 

O vain March moon! 
Henceforth, I hate thy frozen glare, 

Thy loveless and illusive light. 
And so I plead in my despair. 

Come not to-night, come not to-night. 



A DREAM. 

I. 

" Have you forgotten me ? " she said, 

As I, lier old-time worshiper, 

Stood blanched and bloodless as the dead, 

And gazed upon the face of her. 

As soon may yon poor bird (thought I) 
Left mangled by the hedge to die, 
Forget the shaft that festers yet 
Within its breast, — as I forget. 

II. 

But, oh! each old remembered wrong 

Died, in an instant, when I traced 

The lines of agony that laced 

The face of her I loved so long. 

I read, within her channelled cheek, 

A wretchedness no tongue could speak, — 

And so, bent with the pain of years, 

I wept, — and kissed her thro' my tears. 

(82) 



A SEA-WEED. 

A seaman's bride knelt low beside the sea, 
Her hands uplifted in dumb agony. 



The ]*ack drave in against the ragged coast, 
And on the downs the raging ocean tossed. 



"Give back," she cried, "O heaven, give back 

to me, 
One ship, of all the ships that sail the sea." 

A hurrying sea-gull, and a hungry shark 
Made answer, — and the dark grew doubly 
dark. 

That night, a sailor pale with outstretched 

hand, 
Knelt on the deck and prayed for grace to land. 

" Almighty God! let me but clasp once more, 
Ere death, my waiting one, on yonder shore," 

He said, — and fell upon the shattered deck, 
A lifeless mass amidst a hopeless wreck. 

3 (33) 



34 A SEA-WEED. 

The boiling waters murmured a reply, 

As the last bolt came rushing down the sky. 

And o'er the sunken ship the sea-gulls iiew, 
And on the crags the night-winds blew and 
blew. 



THERE IS NO LUCK ABOUT THE 
HOUSE. 

No more the swallows dart and dip 

About my cottage-eaves ; no more 
The tops of my catalpas drip 

"With bird-songs, as in days of yore; 
My grapes are mildewed on the vine, 

My apples blighted on the boughs, 
A curse has come to me and mine, 

There is no luck about the house. 

The grass has withered from my lawn, 

And blasted are my chestnut trees, 
From whose green domes in days agone, 

The dawn-birds poured their melodies ; 
Tlie stream that vanished down the vale, 

With cups of comfort for my cows, 
Has failed, at last, as all things fail — 

There is no luck about the house. 

My garden now can scarce be seen. 
Gone are its beds and winding walks, 

And caterpillars, lank and lean. 
Climb down the sapless hollyhocks ; 

(35) 



36 THERE IS NO LUCK. 

My meadows of their flocks are shorn, 
The hay is moldering in my mows, 

And death-worms wander in my corn — 
There is no luck about the house. 

My horses and my hounds are gone, 

Nor any household pet remains, — 
An owl hoots on the chimney lone, 

And bats whirl darkling thro' the panes; 
Only a cricket's dreary moan. 

Or dreamy nibbling of a mouse, 
Reminds me of the summers flown, — 

There is no luck about the house. 

At midnight when the autumn rains 

Are chill upon the dismal flats, 
I hear a sound, like clanking chains, 

Upstairs among the garret rats ; 
And then the ghosts of other times 

Reel round me in a mad carouse, 
With all their follies and their crimes, — 

There is no luck about the house. 



GENIUS. 

Not those alone, who, lapped in eider down, 

And shrined in templed cities, can lay claim 
To Nature's purple — to the poet's crown. 
And the proud prestige of the minstrel's 

fame ; 
Genius is even-handed! the rapt Dame 
Alike salutes the beggar and the king. 

With her warm touches and her lips of 
flame ; 
Bids potentates be mute and peasants sing. 
And o'er the lowliest roof outspreads her dewy 
wing. 

With her desires ye may dispute in vain, 

Ye pampered sons of pleasure, — ye will find, 
Where least expected, her supreme disdain, 

For she is fickle, and her ways are blind ; 

Think not to woo her with a thoughtless 
mind, 
Nor win her with the witcheries of art, — 

Beneath the tatters of the trampled hind, 
She's quite as apt to lodge the envious dart, 
As 'neath the royal robe that hides an empty 
heart. 

(37) 



A NOCTUENE. 

All things that we can hear or see, 

To-nic^ht, seem happy. Every tree 
Is palpitant with voice and wing, 
And vibrant with the breathing spring. 

The very grass is tremulous 

With music, floating up to us, 
So softly, spiritu'lly clear, 
We seem to feel it — not to hear. 

The moonlight's luster leaking through 
The bending blossoms, pearled with dew. 
Is so delicious, so divine. 
We quaff its splendor like a wine. 
Only the faintest wind is curled 
About the pale, enamored world. 
And drowsy perfumes slip and drip 
From every pansy's pouting lip. 

Starlight, and melody and dreams! 

The lover's and the poet's themes, — 
The same that once entranced and won 
The listening maids of Babylon — 

(38) 



A NOCTURNE. 39 

That charm 'd the ear, and caught the smiles 
Of Beauty in the Grecian Isles, — 
That lulled in old Italian dells 
The Roman lads and damosels. 

On such enchanting nights as these, 
Our spirits, for a moment, seize 

The ravishment of life that runs, 

Exuberant, thro' stars and suns ; 
And as we catch the whirl and whir. 
The planetary pulse and stir, 

We break the seals of sense, and scan 

The majesty of God and man. 



MY GUEST. 

There is a guest that I detest, forever at my 

side, 
Who clings to me as fondly as a bridegroom 

to his bride; 
Who leers at me, and jeers at me, and when I 

cross his will. 
Who only smiles sardonic'ly, and hugs me 

closer still; 
I hate him, and berate him, yet he trudges at 

my heels. 
And reaches in my pockets, and revels at my 

meals ; 
I defy him, and would fly him, but he only 

presses closer. 
And whispers to each wish of mine an ever- 
lasting, " No, sir." 
I have chided and derided, till I'm almost out 

of heart, 
I've abused him, and misused him, but he 

never will depart ; — 
He squeezes me, and freezes me, and well-nigh 

drives me mad, 

(40) 



MT QUEST. 41 

He tortures and he teases me, and growls 
when I am glad; 

He glares at me, and stares at me, as any 
ghoul might do, 

He has shattered every promise that my soul 
was anchored to; 

He has wrecked me, and bedecked me with 
the tattered garbs of woe, 

He has crossed my happy threshold, and has 
laid my loved ones low; 

He's as wary as a beagle, and he grins in such 
a style. 

That the cunning of a serpent is apparent in 
his smile; 

He is lank, he is lean, and his fingers are un- 
clean, 

He is ragged, he is haggard, he is spiteful and 
he's mean ; 

Than Adam he is older, than Satan he is bolder. 

He's as ghastly as a skeleton, and uglier and 
colder; 

When the winter- winds are dire, he sits crouch- 
ing at my fire, 

And glowering at my beggary with eyes that 
never tire; 



43 MY GUEST. 

He's the parent of all crime, in each country, 

and each clime, 
And has tramped the wide world over, hand in 

hand, with Father Time; 
His record all may read, in the hearts that 

break and bleed, 
On the lips of little children that forever pine 

and plead; 
And his deeds are further written, over sleep- 
less eyes red-litten, 
Over cold and empty cradles, over roofs by 

sorrow smitten ; 
Over shattered hopes once cherished, over 

pleasures that have perished, 
Over broken dreams of glory, that a better 

manhood nourished; 
In the byways, and the highways, he goes 

onward unmolested, 
And wakes the world to labor ere its weary 

hands are rested; 
He's a beggar, and a ranger, and was present, 

not a stranger, 
At the birth of the Messiah, in the cold 

Judean manger; 
He has trailed along the path of the tempest 

in its wrath, 



MY QUEST. 43 

And has gloated o'er the rains of the mouldered 

aftermath ; 
He's the Prince of Empty Pockets, out at 

elbow and at knee, 
He's a knight without a copper, whom we 

nickname — Poverty. 



A VISION. 

And in my dream of beauty, I beheld 

A being rapt and radiant as a star, 
Beneath whose kindling light my spirit swelled 

To melody — and, streaming from afar, 
I saw the specters of the dawn unbar 

The gates of morning; and on ever}'^ gale, 
That blew around Aurora's bannered car, 
I saw the Summer's censer-swingers trail 

Their odorous incense over hill and dale. 

And on my sight uprose a golden mist, 

Peopled with many a floating form and 
fair, — 
A Paradise of wandering souls, I wist. 

Chained to the shifting Eden of the air, 
In snowy cavalcades of sweet despair; 

And some had harps and sang, and some 
had flowers. 
And others crowns, — and all were debonair', 
And everywhere were grottos, glades, and 

bowers, 
And purling fountains, vistas, shrines, and 
towers. 

(44) 



THE FIEST GEAY HAIR. 

And thou hast come at last, 
Thou baleful issue of the buried years — 

Sad fruitage of the past, — 
Root-nurtured in a loam of hopes and fears ; 
I hail thee, but I hate thee, lurking there, 
Thou first gray hair. 

Thou soft and silken coil, 
Thou milk-white blossom in a midnight 
tress ! 
Out from the alien soil, 
I'll pluck thee in thine infant tenderness, 
As the rude husbandman uproots the tare, 
Thou first gray hair. 

Of all the fleecy flock, 
Thou art the one to loathe and to despise ; 

The cheat within the shock, 
The mould that on the early harvest lies, 
The mildew on the blossoms of the pear — 
Thou first gray liair. 

(45) 



46 THE FIRST GRAY HAIR. 

And thou the Judas art, 
The tattler of old Time, who doth betray 

The weary worn-out heart, 
Ere yet we dare to dream of its decay ; 
Thou art a hint of wreck beyond repair, 
Thou first gray hair. 



EDISOK. 

Upon a time at Meiilo Park, 

A merry genius wrought, 
Day after day, from dawn to dark, 

The cunning webs of thought; 
And as his nimble fancy drew 

The threads of doubt apart. 
Strange fabrics 'neath his fingers grew, 

To wondrous forms of art. 

To words articulate he gave 

The wings of wider flight ; 
He made the human voice his slave. 

And robbed the earth of night; 
Of speech he caught the subtle sound, 

And treasured it so clear, 
That dead men, lying underground, 

May still be talking here. 

The wizards of the elder age 
Have dwindled into naught. 

Beside this later heritage, 
This Heracles of thought 

(47) 



48 EDISON 



Witli spider-energj lie weaves 

The gossamers that bind, 
Through every land, in richer sheaves, 

The hearts of all mankind. 



THE YALE OF GOLD. 

(They tell of a wonderful valley in the Sierra Madre, which 
glistens with gold and is resplendent with bright waters and 
beautiful flowers. Connected with it are many fascinating leg- 
ends of Indian origin, the prettiest of which is the belief of the 
natives that Montezuma will some day return and free them from 
the dominion of the descendants of the Conquestodores.) 

Far to the south and west there lies, 

Away in the sun-set land, 
Where the weird Sierra lifts to the skies 

The wealth of her jeweled hand — 
There lies deep hid in the mountain range. 

As old as the world is old, 
A fabulous valley, dim and strange, 

That is known as the Yale of Gold. 

Kever a white man's foot has crossed 

An Eden as fair as this, 
Since bidding adieu to the one he lost, 

On the brim of the world, I wis ; 
There are flowers as bright as the orbs of 
night, 

And birds of radiant wing — 
And streams that quiver and dance forever, 

In time to the tunes they sing. 

4 (49) 



50 THE VALE OF GOLD. 

There's a golden grot, and a golden ledge, 

And blooms of gold, and golden bees, — 
Gold in the grass, and the sighing sedge, 

And gold in the orange trees ; 
There's gold in the stars, and gold in the 
stream. 

And gold in the skin of the snake — 
Gold in the moon when the dreamers dream, 

And gold in the morn, when they wake. 

And a seer hath writ on a golden stone. 

In a golden time of the past. 
How the Montezuinas will mount their 
throne 

Again in the valley vast ; 
And the fires of the Aztec priests will burn 

Once more on the altars cold, 
And the gods of the vanquished race return, 

To reifirn in the Yale of Gold. 



THE CRIME. 

Here lived the slayer, and there the slain, 

With barely an acre of ground between ; 

'Twas night! they stood in the wind and rain. 

And quarrelled, — next morning a ghastly stain 

Of blood on the meadow-grass was seen. 

And one was dead, and one had fled, 

And all night long the mourners wept ; 
The widow wailed in the dusk by the dead, 
And the wife of the slayer shook with dread, 
And the north-wind over the chimney swept. 

And these were farmers, and these were friends, 

Friends, I say, till that night in the Fall; 
Too proud was the one to make amends 
For a foolish wrong, and the bloody ends 
Of passion followed, with grief and gall. 

Then a gibbet loomed in the dusky sky, 

And a blue-eyed orphan pierced the night 
With desolate sobs, and a mother's cry 
Outrang the blast, as it whistled by. 
In its wild, unbridled flight. 

(51) 



52 TEE CRIME. 

They laid the slayer not far from the slain, 
In the village church-yard, under the hill, 

And the meadows of death were dearth of 
grain, 

And the winds blew over the iinplowed plain. 
For the hands of the husbandmen were still. 

I passed by the crumblinsj huts, to-day. 

And birds were out, and the land was green ; 
Two women withered, and bent, and gray. 
Sat, each in the shade of her own doorway. 
And children played on the ground between. 



MAKCH. 

Tlie gables of the farm-house groan, 
And down the orchard's barren rows, 
Beyond the hills, a cloud of crows 

Against the windy west is blown. 

The falling sun is fringed with mist, 
And east-ward like an Indian queen, 
The moon at intervals is seen, 

Thro' dripping rifts of amethyst. 

A few stray flakes of snow — and then, 
The all-night pattering on the pane 
Of slumber-wooing sleet and rain — 

Then morning — and the winds again ! 

(53) 



SHE SLEEPS. 

'Twas summer's noon! One I had known 

Lay stark upon her lily bed; 
And one I knew not, wept alone, 

Beside the lady lying dead ; — 
The lady with the long brown hair, 

And lucent eyes of Heaven's own blue, — 
A lady fair and debonaire^ 

As e'er was given man to woo. 

He wept for eyes that ne'er again 

. Would lift their love-light to his own — 

His tears fell like the autumn rain, 

O'er days of joy forever flown ; 
He wept as one might weep who stands 

Outside the pale of Paradise, 
When some sweet saint with pleading hands 

Eloats, dream-like, o'er his tranced eyes. 

He wept the tender heart and true, 
That fell to dust before his eye — 

He wept as knightly spirits do. 
O'er all the beauty that can die; 

(54) 



SHE SLEEPS. 55 

He wept to hear his orphans cry, 

Amid the gloom, the long night through, — 

He wept until his soul was dry 
Then slept — and woke to weep anew. 

And in and out the people drew. 

And much they marveled — much they 
praised 
The lady's loveliness, whereto 

Death's awful signet had been placed; 
And. kinsmen from the fair land round 

Came in with weeping lids and lips. 
And round the marble mother bound 

Their garlands, — love's Apocalypse! 

She's gone into the silent land, 

She's faded from this world of ours, — 
Where summer's golden skies expand. 

She's folded in a realm of flowers; 
She sleeps — the fair young mother sleeps, — 

No words of ours, no cries, no tears. 
Can pierce the dull grave's gloomy deeps. 

Thro' all the intervital years. 

She sleeps, — nor any dreams hath she, — 
The tides may ebb, the tides may flow; 



66 SHE SLEEPS. 

Where once she was, she ne'er can be, 
While round the world the wild winds 
blow ; 

She sleeps — God rest her where she lies ! 
Until the gates of dawn unbar, 

Then give her spirit strength to rise 
To life in some sublimer star! 



'WAY DOWN IN SPICE VALLEY. 



'Way down in Spice Yalley I'm drifting 

to-night, 
On a river of dreams, with a heart that is light 
As the lilt of the woodlark, a-tilt on the tree, 
By the spot where my cot in that vale used 

to be — 
When life was a lily just opening its eye. 
To the dew of the dawn, and the blue of 

the sky, 

'Way down in Spice Yalley. 

II. 

'Way down in Spice Yalley, in fancy, I see 
The bloom of the clover still beck'ning the bee — 
The low-leaning orchards, the herds on the hill, 
And the road, like a ribbon unspooled, to the 

mill; 
Still, still, in my dream, I can see the old 

stream, 

(57) 



58 'WAY DOWN IN SPIOE VALLEY. 

And the ford, where the farmer drove over his 
team, 

'"Way down in Spice Yalley. 

III. 

'Way down in Spice Yalley, Old Time falls 

asleep, 
"With his head on the sward, in a slumber so 

deep 
That the birds cannot wake him, with melodies 

blithe, 
And the long valley -grasses grow over his 

scythe, — 
And Summer kneels down, in her long golden 

gown. 
On a carpet of green, where the skies never 

frown, 

'Way down in Spice Valley. 

lY. 

'"Way down in Spice Yalley, my memory goes, 
"With a sigh, like the sob of the river that flows 
In that far-away vale, — and I pray in my 
dream. 



'WAY DOWN IN SPIGE VALLEY. 59 

To "be borne, when I die, to tliat beautiful 

stream. 
And tenderly laid in the welcoming shade 
Of the wide-spreading woods, where I wandered 

and played, 

'"Way down in Spice Yalley. 



A FEAGMENT. 

There is no panacea known 
To soothe the soul when hope is flown — 
There is no bahn the wound to heal, 
When Love withdraws his dripping steel. 

The mangled heart may still beat on, 
When everything it prized is gone — 
Throb on, without one pleasing pain. 
To indicate if life remain. 

God pity him who cannot die, 
When all his dreams in ashes lie, 
And through his soul's dismantled hall 
The spectral past holds carnival. 

(60j 



THE OLD HOUSE-FLY. 

I. 

Go throw the shutters open wide, and lift the 

windows high, 
Let out the silence and the gloom, let in the 

jolly %; 
I'm weary of this stale repose, and long to 

hear again. 
The sweetest sound of all the year, the fly 

upon the pane; — 
I long to see him bobbing up and down the 

sill and sash, 
I long to feel his tickling tread upon my soft 

mustache ; 
I love to see him tilting on his slender, tender 

toes, 
I love to watch him bump, and buzz, and 

balance on his nose; 
In all the universe, to-day, of merry song and 

glee, 
O, tell me where's another that is happier 

than he; 

(61) 



63- THE OLD BOUSE -FLY. 

Then throw the shutters open wide, and lift 

the windows high, 
Let out the gloom and silence, and let in the 

jolly fly- 

11. 

O, the old house-flj! O, the brave house-fly! 
A straddling o'er the butter-dish, a sprawling 

o'er the pie, — 
A jogging thro' the jell and jam, and jouncing 

round the cream, 
As prone to risk a summer sail upon the milky 

stream ; 
A roving life the rascal leads thro' all the rosy 

hours, 
A sipping only of the sweets, and skipping all 

the sours; 
A button-headed roustabout, a lover light and 

bold. 
Who revels on the ripest lips that mortal eyes 

behold; 
Who clambers up the softest_ cheek, and up 

the whitest arm. 
And loiters on the fairest breast that ever love 

made warm ; 



THE OLD ROUSE-FLY. 63 

Then throw the shutters open wide, and lift 

the windows high, 
Let out the silence and the gloom, let in the 

jolly %. 

III. 

O, the old house-fly ! O, the jolly house-fly ! 
He was present at our coming, he'll be with 

us when we die ; 
From Turkestan to Mexico, his broad dominion 

runs, 
And his nature never changes with the 

"process of the suns; " 
From the days of dusky Cheops, down thro' 

centuries of dirt, 
'Tis a matter of conjecture, if he ever washed 

his shirt; 
He has dined with every poet from the 

patriarchal Chaucer, 
He has often taken pleasure-trips in Billy 

Shakespeare's saucer; 
He dipped his saucy noddle into Cleopatra's 

cup, 
When the amorous Antonius his kingdom 

offered up; 



64 THE OLD HOUSE FLY. 

Then throw the shutters open wide, and lift 

the windows high, 
Let out the silence and the gloom, let in the 
jolly fly. 



IV 



O, the old house-fly ! O, the naughty house- 

fly! 
He dances on the baby's lip, and on the dead 

man's eye; 
He's first to taste the tawny wine within the 

tippler's glass, 
He prances on the prelate's nose whene'er he 

goes to mass; 
He's found within the skipper's hut, and in 

the gilded hall, 
A giddy gambolier, who pays his compliments 

to all; 
"When our mothers rocked the cradles, in the 

cabins of our birth. 
His happy chorus blended with the cricket 

on the hearth, — 
And I love the recollection of the hours I've 

seen him crawl, 



THE OLD HOVSE-FLT. 65 

In the summer-time of childhood, up and down 

the whitened wall; 
Then throw the shutters open wide, and lift 

the windows high. 
Let out the gloom and silence, and let in the 

jolly fly. 



INSOMNIA. 



Into the dark and chambered deep, 

I wearily cast my eye, 
And cry to the echoing night for sleep, 

But ever in vain I cry. 

II 

For the wheels of memory turn, 

And passions old arise. 
And the wasted years come back and burn 

The slumber out of my eyes. 

Ill 

And I sob like a child in pain, 
For the rest that comes not nigh, 

And out in the dark I hear the rain, 
Where my shattered idols lie. 

(66) 



" THEY HAD NO POET AND SO 
THEY DIED." 

In the dim waste lands of the Orient stands 

The wreck of a race so old and vast, 
That the grayest legend can not lay hands 

On a single fact of its tongueless past; 
Not even the red gold crown of a king, 

Nor a warrior's shield, nor aught beside, 
Can history out of the ruins wring, — 

They had no poet and so they died. 

Babel and Nineveh, what are they. 

But feeble hints of a passing power 
That over the populous East held sway. 

In a dream of pomp for a paltry hour? 
A toppled tower, and a shattered stone, 

Where the satyrs dance, and the dragons 
hide, 
Is all that is known of the glory flown, — 

They had no poet and so they died. 

Down where the dolorous Congo slips, 
Like a tawny snake, thro' the torrid clime, 

(67) 



68 THET HAD NO POET. 

Man's soul has slept in a cold eclipse, 

On the world's dark rim, since the dawn of 
time ; 

And if ever the ancient Nubians wrought 
A work of beauty, or strength, or pride, 

It was unrecorded, and goes for naught, — 
They had no poet and so they died. 

And even here, in the sun- crowned West, 

In the land we love, in the vales we've trod, 
Where the bleeding palms of the world find 
rest 

On Freedom's lap, at the feet of God, — 
Even here, I say, ere the earth waxed old, 

A race Titanic did once abide, 
But, ah! their story is left untold, — 

They had no poet and so they died. 

The same old tale ! and so it will be, 

As long as the heavens feed the stars, — 
As lonsr as the tribes of men shall see 

A lesser glory in arts than wars ; 
And so let us live, and labor, and pray. 

As down we glide with the darkling tide. 
That never a singer of us may say. 

They had no poet and so they died. 



AT WATERLOO. 

"Stand firm!" said the Duke, as a courier 

came 
Thro' the battery's breath, with his bare brow 

aflame; 
"Stand firm!"— "But we perish"— " Stand 

firm !" cried the Duke, 
And the officer flushed as he felt the rebuke. 
But he coolly replied, 'mid the roar of the 

gun, 
" You'll find lis all here when the battle is 

done." 

Death's carnival followed. O'er field and o'er 

trench, 
In billows of doom, dashed the waves of the 

French ; 
As firm as a sea-battered wall stood the rank 
Of that fated brigade, — not an English heart 

shrank, — 
Together they perished, but Wellington won. 
He found them all there when the hattle was 

done. 

(69) 



«GAUN HAME." 

"Fareweel!" she said, and she waved her 

hand 
From the stately ship, as it left the land 
For a far-off shore. 

" Fareweel!" said she, 
" I am gaun awa' to my ain countree, 
"Where the gowans grow^ and my laddie lies 
Cauld in his grave, where the Ochils rise, — 
To the land o' the leal, where my mither dear, 
Has slumbered for mony a lang, lang year. 
Ghaist-like, I've wandered the warldsae wide, 
A wae-worn lassie — an unlo'ed bride, — 
An' now, as the simmer grows sad and sere. 
An' my days draw doun to the last dim year, 
I am driftin' awa' frae a frien'less shore, 
To the hame o' the happy, ance more, ance 

more." 

The ship went down in the roaring sea, 

But the lady— she reached her " ain countree." 

(70) 



A BALLAD OF TEARS. 



" The tears I shed must ev^er fall," 

Low moaned a mother, as she kept 
A nightly vigil over all 

Iler household idols, as they slept ; 
The storm came down against the pane, 

She heard, far off, strange voices call, 
As still she sobbed, in drear refrain, 

" The tears I shed must ever fall." 



II 



" The tears I shed must ever fall," 

Sighed one — an aged man — who stood 
Beside a tablet, gray and tall, 

Far in a churchyard's solitude; 
The past burned back upon his brain, 

"With dreams of bliss beyond recall, — 
Poor soul! he whispered thro' his pain, 

" The tears I shed must ever fall." 

(71) 



73 A BALLAD OF TEARS. 

Ill 

" The tears I shed must ever fall," 

A hungry, houseless exile wailed, 
As o'er him, from a festal-hall, 

The lights of joy and splendor trailed. 
He wept, — his weeping was in vain. 

For death itself could not forestall 
The anguish of his cold refrain, 

" The tears I shed must ever fall." 



IV 



" The tears I shed must ever fall," 

A lone girl sang, and singing, heard 
The waves beat on the dim sea-wall, 

In mournful melody and weird; 
The night caught up the plaintive strain, 

As, folding round her, like a pall, 
It rustled to the dull refrain, 

" The tears I shed must ever fall." 



JULY IN THE WEST. 

DAY. 

A rhy tlim of reapers ; a flashing 
Of steels in the meadows ; a lashing 
Of sheaves in the wheatlands; a glitter 
Of grain-builded streets, and a twitter 
Of birds in a motionless sky, — 
And that is July ! 

A rustle of corn -leaves ; a tinkle 
Of bells on the hills; a twinkle 
Of sheep in the lowlands; a bevy 
Of bees where the clover is heavy; 
A butterfly blundering by, — 
And that is July! 

NIGHT. 

A moon-flood prairie ; a straying 
Of light-hearted lovers; a baying 
Of far-away watch dogs; a dreaming 
Of brown -fisted farmers; a gleaming 
Of fire-flies eddying nigh, — 
And that is July ! 

(73) 



74 JULY IN THE WEST. 

A babble of brooks that deliver 
Their flower- purfled waves to the river; 
A moan in the marshes ; in thickets, 
A dolorous droning of crickets, 
Attuned to a whippoorwill's cry, — 
And that is July ! 



ILLINOIS. 

I sing not of the summer-lands, 
That lie beyond the rolling seas — 
Nor of the famed Hesperides, 

Nor any tropic isles nor strands. 

I sing a land of peace and light. 
Of labor, love and liberty — 
A land wherein the prophets see 

The dawn of progress infinite. 

No dreaming poet ever drew 
Upon the tablet of his thought, 
A land with fairer promise fraught, 

Than this that opens on my view. 

The maiden empire of the "West, 

Gold-sheened, gold-sandalled, and gold- 
crowned, 

Her brows with yellow harvests bound, 
Her ample bosom blossom-drest. 

Here rhythmic rivers flash and flow, 
Thro' meadows measureless, and here, 

(75) 



76 ILLINOIS. 

On banks of roses, cities rear 
Their temples in tlie sunset's glow. 

Here birds of every tongue and tinge 
Fly up and down the laughing lands, 
From Michigan's surf -whitened sands, 

To where Ohio's floods infringe. 

The skies of Italy are ours, 

And ours the Lydian airs that blow 

So lightly, lullingly, and low. 

At night-tide, o'er the sleeping flowers. 

No ghostly ruins fret the wind, 

No shattered shrines, no toppling towers, 
But, ah! this peaceful realm embowers 

The wealth of Ormus and of Ind. 

Nor is the soul of romance flown. 
For here the poet's eye can trace 
The vestige of a vanished race, 

In field and forest, stream and stone. 

And here a grander Rome will rise, 
A Rome without a slave or king. 
Round which a nobler race will spring. 

With patriotic souls and wise; — 



Illinois. ni 

A free-born people, proud and great, 
With heart and hand to do and dare, — 
With strength to fashion firm and fair 

The fabric of the growing State. 

And Greece, beneath these western skies. 
Will leap to life again, and breathe 
Her spirit into stone, and wreathe 

The land with deathless melodies. 

I trow no fancy can forecast 

The fame, the splendor yet to be 
Unscrolled before the world, when we 

Are drawn into the dreamless past. 



"THE EYES OF ELEANOEA." 

I. 

As the light of a star is found. 
By day, in the sunless ground, 

Where the river of silence lies, — 
So the spirit of beauty dwells, 
O love, in the mimic wells 

Of thy large, thy luminous eyes. 

II 

As out of a turbulent night, 
A lost bird turns to the light 

Of a desolate dreamer's room, — 
So, forth from the storm of thine eyes, 
A passionate splendor flies 

To my soul, through the inter -gloom. 

Ill 

As a lily quivers and gleams. 

All night, by the darkling streams, 

That dream in the underlands, — 
So, up from the haunted lakes 
Of thy shadowy eyes. Love shakes 

The snows of her beck'ning hands. 

(78) 



''THE EYES OF ELBANOBAr 79 

IV 

As clusters of new worlds dawn, 
When the infinite night comes on, 

In the measureless, moonless skies — 
So the planet of love burns high, 
O sweet, when the day sweeps by, 

In the dusk of thy orient eyes. 



O, BLEAK IS THE NIGHT. 
{Song.) 
O bleak is the night 

That is shorn of its stars, 
And cold is the heart 

Tliat is chastened with scars; 
But bleaker and colder 

Than everything yet, 
Is the love-plundered bosom, 

That cannot forget. 

The bright crystal dews 

That o'er-sprinkle the lawn, 
Slip back into mist 

At the touch of the dawn, — 
But the lover low-chained 

To the rack of regret. 
Must languish in pain, 

For he cannot forget. 

White sails of the ocean 
Grow dingy on shore. 

But brighten again 

As they sweep the seas o'er ; 

(80) 



0, BLEAK IS THE NIGHT. 81 

Not so the fond eyes 

With love's hopelessness wet — 
The heart never lightens 

That cannot forget. 

The visions of terror 

That haunt lis by night, 
Like shadows take wing 

At the first flush of light; 
But the breast of despair 

Still in anguish must fret, 
For the curse is upon it — 

It cannot forget. 



THE BURDEN OF BABYLON. 

O Babylon, O Babylon, 
The Lord hath made His purpose known; 
His anger, like a seething sea. 
Swells at th}^ gate, 
And Sodom's fate 
Alas, proud city, is reserved for thee. 

O Babylon, O Babylon, 
Soon, soon, thy glory shall be gone; 
Beneath thy godless roofs shall run 
E'en the warm blood 
Of motherhood, [one! 

And none escape His vengeance — nay, not 

O Babylon, O Babylon, 
Never again as years go on. 
Shall shepherds fold their flocks by thee ; 
Nor Arab pitch 
His tent, nor hitch 
His camel by thy cool pomegranate tree. 

O Babylon, O Babylon, 
The winds shall o'er thy ruins moan; 
Within thy desolated halls, 
Shall flit the owl, 
And wild beasts prowl. 
And dancing satyrs hold their carnivals. 

(82) 



BEHIND THE VEIL. 

I 

As a painter walked forth in the dawn, half- 
adream, 
He saw the green splendor of sumptuous 
trees 
Waving under the winds, and his eyes drank 
the gleam 
Of the blue vagues above him like pendu- 
lous seas; 
The world was a picture, so fair and so fine, 
That the artist beheld it with marvelling 
eyes,— 
But he saw not the hand of the Painter divine, 
Who stood at his easel, just back of the 
skies. 

II 

A sculptor once strolled mid' the mountains, 
entranced, 
Untongued, in a tremulous transport of 
Art, 

(83) 



84 ^ ^^IIIND THE VEIL. 

As he scanned the grim turrets of granite that 
glanced 
On the rim. of the sun, standing stark and 
apart ; 
His soul sipped the scene till it reeled with 
despair, 
Till his chisel fell dulled on the stones at 
his feet, — 
But he saw not the Sculptor, half -hid on the 
stair, 
And he heard not the mallet of God as it 
beat. 



Ill 



In fancy, I saw a musician enchained 

In a tangle of melodies, tremblingly twirled 
From the throats of the throstles, like sym- 
phonies strained 

From the harps of old minstrels, and blown 
down the world ; 
He stood in the dawning, delirously dazed, 

And as still as a bronze, — but he saw not all, 
The swinging batoon that the Master upraised 

At the Fount of all music, just over the wall. 



BEHIND THE VEIL. 85 

IV 

1 saw, ill my vision, a poet who wrote 
1 With a pencil of light, from a heart that 
was fraught 
With the fervor of passion,— whose soul was 
afloat 
On a palpitant ocean of fancy and thought; 
His lays by the lips of all lands were rehearsed, 
Till they set the slow pulse of the peoples 
a-quiver, — 
But he saw not the face of the Poet, who first 
Gave the song to the sea, and the rhyme to 
the river. 



DAY AND JMIGHT. 

I 

When drowsy Day draws round his downy 

bed 
The Tyrian tapestries of gold and red, 
And, weary of his flight, 
Puts out the palace light, — 
'Tis night! 

II 

"When languid Night, awakening with a yawn. 
Leaps down the moon -washed stairway of the 
dawn, 
In trailing disarray. 
Sweeping the dews away, — 
'Tis day! 

(86) 



ONE GOLDEN HAIK. 

{Found in an old volume of Burns^ 

A woman's liair ! a single strand ! 
And yet a most fantastic thought 
Flashed o'er me, as my fingers caught 

And drew it forth across my hand. 

Like to some living thing that turns, 
Instinctive, from the spoiler's touch, 
The hair curled upward from my clutch, 

And sought again the page of Burns, — 

A page whereon the bard had told 
A woman's charms, in verse divine: — 

" Her hair was like the links o' gold, 
Her cheeks like lilies dipped in wine." 

A woman's hair ! a single shred ! 

A golden fibre gently torn 

From some proud beauty to adorn 
The book of love, wherein she read, — 
Wherein she caught the flash and fire 

Of purest passion ever given. 
To sanctify a poet's l}Te, 

And lure a panting heart to heaven. 

(87) 



t ONE GOLDEN HAIR. 

A golden hair! a slender thing! 

A soft and silken coil ! And yet, 

In death, it still would pay a debt 
Of love unto the poet-king. 
This single hair — this twining hair, 

A sweeter, nobler tribute pays 
To him who sang beside the Ayr, 

Than any human lip can phrase. 



IN SUMMER WOODS. 

How sweet amidst the melancholy hills 
To lie, a lazy dreamer, in the lap 
Of flush mid-siimmer, drowsy with the lull 
Of lapping waters and light winds that pipe 
In murmurous monotones, along the dim, 
Sun-litten arcades of the spectral woods, — 
To hear, remotely, in the lonesome lands. 
The drony resonance of dreamy bells, 
Where, 'mid cool shadows, lurk the browsing 

herds. 
In dimpled hollows, soft with summer sward — 
To list the sullen rasp of insect wings, 
And, in a silken indolence of soul, 
To note the bluster of the tippling bee, 
Home-reeling from the pillaged palaces 
Of Flora's shining empire. 

Every tuft 
Is populous with panting life and toil — 
Each tree is tremulous with melody, 
Each dainty leaf, each dewy blade of grass. 
Stirs into music at the gentlest touch 
Of every passing wind. 

Ye who would hear 
The primal symphonies by Adam heard, 

(89) 



90 IN SUMMER WOODS. 

Amid the velvet vales of Paradise, 

Go down, go down, to the embowering woods. 

Go down into the pulsing, summer woods. 

Forgetful and forgotten of the world, 

And in a rosy rhapsody of rest, 

Throw wide the spirit's portals to the fresh. 

Out-flowing voices of the universe, — 

The voices of the everlasting hills, 

The voices of the rivers and the rocks, 

The rivulets, the rushes, and the reeds, 

And all the wizard -rhythm of the shades. 

Let the light spirit, loosened from the thrall 
Of every-day distraction, wan'der free. 
And quaff the nectar of a nobler hope, 
The sweeter incense of a higher sphere, 
And, on the star crowned summits of the 

mind, 
Model ambitions of sublimer mould. 



SEYEKED FRIENDSHIP. 

Shall we never meet again? 

Is it fated that we twain 

Shall know no more the clasping 
Of each other's arms — the grasping 

Of each other's hands, and tingling 

Of the old-time's intermingling? 

Is it written — is it known, 

In the doom -book at the Throne, 

That you and I, forever, 

Shall never, never, never. 
Be united — be twin-hearted, 
As in days long since departed? 

May we never backward creep. 
Thro' the shadows, vague and deep. 
To the melancholy borders 
Of our strifes and our disorders, 
And restore the fetters golden 
Of the happy days and olden ? 

Is it fated that we twain 

Must forevermore remain 
Asunder, but still yearning 
For a love that's unreturning — 

For a friendship rashly riven. 

In the sight of Earth and Heaven? 

(91) 



MY LADY BEAUTIFUL. 

Could I, in two sweet sonnets, here condense 
The honied praise and compliments of all 
The poets of the earth since Adam's fall, — 
Or could my light-winged fancy, flying thence. 
Beyond the girdling barricades of sense, 
The subtle strength of future song forestall — 
Were such my gifts, I'd build a temple tall 
Of royal homage, walled with eloquence. 
Within whose purple court, upon a throne 

Of silken despotism, I would place 
The snowy empress of my soul's desire; — 
Her dynasty should be my heart, alone. 

Her passions be to mine as food and fire. 
And pasture for mine eyes her body's grace. 

And twinkling Cupids nightly to her sleep, 
In clouds of riant rivalry would throng, — 
And in the meshes of her ringlets long, 
A breathless vigil o'er the dreamer keep; 
Nor ever should a tell-tale teardrop peep 
From out her dewy lids, — nor from her 

tongue 
Should aught escape but laughter and sweet 
song, 

(92) 



MY LADY BEAUTIFUL. 93 

And discourse dreamfully devout and deep. 
No pirate winds — no prowling plagues should 
creep, 
By night or day, within her wreathen 
shrine, — 
The stairway to her heart should be so steep, 

That it would echo to no tread but mine, — 
And I, through all the dear Idalian days, 
Would lull the princess with love's roundelays. 



IN SOUDAN. 

Ended that strange career, 

Long so victorious, 
Slain by an Arab's spear, 

Gordon, the glorious; 
Stark under torrid skies. 

Girdled with gloom, 
Britain's best soldier lies 

Dead in Khartoum. 

Stewart falls bleeding, and 

Earle is in glory, — 
Steady, now ! hand to hand. 

Sweep all before ye ! 
Close up the shattered square, 

Stand fast, who can ! 
Strike ! while a hope is there 

Left in Soudan. 

Mothers of England,, weep! 

Weep, sons and daughters! 
Weep for the brave who sleep, 

Hard by Nile's waters ! 
Weep for your Burnaby 

Dead in the van, — 
Weep ye, for all who lie 

Cold in Soudan. 

(94) 



OUT ON THE FABM. 

A home in the country ! what care I 

For the tossing town, with its madd'ning din, 
Where the grinding wheels of the world go by, 

And the soul grows sick, as the crowds crush 
in; 
Better the lanes where the linnets be, 

And the brown bees drone in the dewy thyme ; 
"Where the wild bird flutes on the tulip-tree. 

And the garnet bells of the pawpaws chime. 

A home in the country ! Never for me 
The flash of fashion, and feverish beat 

Of the trampling masses my sad eyes see 
Pulsing forever from street to street; — 

Better the woods where the waters meet, 
And the grass gi'ows cool by the shelvy 
shore, — 

Where the wild-flowers blush in their dim 
retreat. 

And the clamor of town is heard no more. 

A home in the country, blessed and sweet. 
From the hand of God, where the shade and 
shine 

(95) 



96 OUT ON TUB FARM. 

Play all day long in the rippling wheat, 
And the berries glow in the grass, like wine; 

Never a home in the town be mine, 

Mid' the stir and whir, and the gaud and 
glare, — 

Give me the farm where the clovered kine 
Are heard on the hill, — and the world is fair. 



THE OLD FIREPLACE. 

The blessed old fireplace ! how bright it appears, 

As back to my boyhood I gaze, 
O'er the desolate waste of the vanishing years, 

From the gloom of these lone latter-days; 
Its lips are as ruddy, its heart is as warm 

To my fancy, to-night, as of yore. 
When we cuddled around it, and smiled at the 
storm. 

As it showed its white teeth at the door. 

I remember the apple that wooed the red 
flame. 
Till the blood bubbled out of its cheek, — 
And the passionate popcorn that smothered 
its shame. 
Till its heart split apart with a shriek; 
I remember the Greeks and the Trojans who 
fought. 
In their shadowy shapes on the wall, 
And the yarn, in thick tangles, my fingers held 
taut 
While my mother was winding the ball. 

I remember the cat that lay cozy and curled 
By the jamb, where the flame flickered high, 

1 (97) 



98 THE OLD FIBBPLAGE. 

And the sparkles, — the fire-flies of winter, — 
that whirled 
Up the flue, as the wind whistled by; 
I remember the bald-headed, bandy-legg'd 
tongs. 
That frowned like a fiend in my face. 
In a fury of passion, repeating the wrongs 
They had borne in the old fireplace. 

I remember the steam from the kettle that 
breathed, 

As soft as the flight of a soul, — 
The long-handled skillet that spluttered and 
seethed 

With the batter that burthened its bowl ; 
I remember the rusty, identical nail. 

Where the criminal pot-hooks were hung, — 
The dragon-faced andirons, the old cedar pail. 

The gourd, and the peg where it swung. 

But the fire has died out on the old cabin 
hearth. 
The wind clatters loud thro' the pane. 
And the dwellers, — they're flown to the ends 
of the earth. 
And will gaze on it never again; 



THE OLD FIRE-PLACE. 99 

A forget-me-not grows in the mouldering wall, 

The last as it were of its race, 
And the shadows of night settle down like a 
pall, 

On the stones of the old fireplace. 



" JOUKYD ADDLES." 

O, where is Jouky daddies, 

O, where, where, where — 
The little chubby codger 

That was toddlin' here and there. 
With the jelly on his chin, 

And the butter on his cheeks, 
And his lubber little legs 

With their piiddle-muck streaks ? 

O, where is Joukydaddles, 

O, where, where, where — 
"With the bonnie breezes blowin' 

In his curly brown hair; 
The little busy-body 

In his berry-stained shirt, 
A-dabblin' with his wee. 

Tawny lingers in the dirt? 

O, where is Joukydaddles, 
O, where, where, where — 

"Who daily used to tumble 
Down the old cellar- stair; 

(100) 



" JOVE TD ADDLES.'' 101 

The burly little bandit, 

With the big jewelled eyes, — 

The bloody buccaneer 

'Mong the bugs and butterflies ? 

O, where is Joukydaddles, 

O, where, where, where, — 
We nev^er see him here, 

And we never hear him there; 
There's a shadow at the threshold, 

A silence on the floor. 
And a dusty little roundabout 

Is danglin' on the door; 
We call — but Joukydaddles 

Never answers any more. 



LINES TO A TEERAPIiq'. 

O, terrapin, terrapin, whither away. 

Thou slow-moving, evil-eyed tramp; 
What destiny tempts thee, old pilgrim, to 
stray 
So far from the terrapin camp? 
"Why prowl at my garden, thou sauntering 
crust 
Of inscrutable cunning, — why sneak 
And recoil, like a snake, with an air of dis- 
trust, 
When a gentleman deigneth to speak? 

Thou toothless, old triple-lashed rover, what 
news 

Bringest thou from the terrapin isles, — 
And what of thy trip thro' the dusks and the 
dews. 

O'er the pathless and perilous miles? 
What bloody banditti beleaguer thy way, 

And where does thy lone journey trend, — 
O, prince of the turtles, make answer, I pray. 

To the querulous poet, thy friend! 

(102) 



LINES TO A TERRAPIN. 103 

Thou Wandering Jew of the terrapin race, 

What marvelous mysteries lie 
Tormentingly locked in thy taciturn face, 

And forever unsealed in thine eye; 
For thee doth some terrapin mistress await 

In her portable j)alace, I wot, — 
For thee sits she niij-ht after night at the 2;ate, 

And sadly complains of her lot, 

O, terrapin, terrapin, whither away. 

Thro' the dews and the dazzle of dawn? 
No longer, poor gypsy, thy steps I will stay, 

But will think of thee often, when gone; 
Thy road is as rugged no doubt as my own. 

Thy heart is as sunless and sore, — 
So I wish thee good-morning, thou terrapin 
lone. 

And bid thee godspeed from my door. 



A PKOFILE OF FALL. 

Under the tree the ladder leans 
On the branches gray and old, — 

And, balanced above, the gleaner gleans 
The glittering spheres of gold ; 

While pyramids brighter than maiden's eyes, 

In the leafy aisles of the orchard rise. 

Rambo, Pippin, and Limbertwig, 
Belleflower, Kusset, and Romanite, 

Dangling high on the slender sprig, 

Gleam with a quivering rainbow light, — 

And the old man nodding beneath the trees. 

Dreams of the times when he planted these. 

When a blue-eyed bride was at his side. 

In the merry summer weather. 
And life was fair as the apples there, 

That cling to the bough together; — 
But a score of springs have showered their 
bloom 

Where the sunlight lies on the good wife's 
tomb. 

(104) 



A PROFILE OF FALL. 105 

With a greedy mouth the cider-mill 
Is craimching away in the grove, — 

Its lips adrip with an amber rill 
As pure as the wine of Jove; 

And the bees and the nut-brown boys are 
there, 

To sip the sweets and the sport to share. 

The cliestnut brown in a sheath of spears 

On the fading hillside lies. 
And sleeps till the sunlight bursts its burrs 

And shakes the night from its eyes; 
And the walnut cloaked in Lincoln-green, 
Dreams of a winter night, I ween. 

Up in the old oak's airy hall, 

The squirrel heaps his store, 
In spite of the deadly rifle-ball 

That rings at his chamber door, — 
A merry fellow and full of glee. 
Is the fur-clad knight of the hollow tree. 

All day long in his lampless log. 

The lonesome rabbit lies, 
Peeking at every passing dog 

With big sardonic eyes, — 



106 A PROFILE OF FALL. 

And wondering to himself, no doubt, 
If ever the dog will find him out. 

The feathered bards have sheathed their quills, 

And closed each tuneful mouth, 
And flown like sunshine out of the hills 

To summer lands of the South ; 
And we who sit in the shade and write, 
Sigh to them all, as they wing their flight. 



A YALENTINE. 

Tho' hill and vale with music ring, 
And mating birds be on the wing, 
To-day I have no heart to sing, — 
My Margerie no longer hears, 
She smiles not now, nor heeds my tears, 
She wakes not with the waking spring. 
She comes not with returning years. 

As sink the snow-flakes in the sea, 

Loved Margerie, lost Margerie, 

My thoughts concenter all in thee ; 
To-day the softest, subtlest note 
That trembles from the throstle's throat, 

Stirs not the slightest pulse in me, — 
My dreams are of a day remote. 

The lute lies silent on my knee, 
I touch no more the trembling key, 
That thrilled the heart of Margerie; 

Those eyes where truth and passion met. 
Love's planets, in the grave have set. 
And left this heritage to me, 
A memory — a fond regret. 

(107) 



'TIS ALWAYS SUNDAY IN THE 
WOODS. 

" 'Tis always Simdaj in the woods," 

She said — the boiinie wife of mine — 
As thro' the leaf -walled solitudes, 

We j)assed beneath tlie arching vine ; 
We saw the sunbeams slant and shine, 

Like tongues of flame at Pentecost, — 
We sipped the sacramental wine. 

From many a chalice gold-emboss'd. 

Outlined against the templed hills, 

Tlie living symbols of the Lord, 
We saw, — and down a thousand rills 

The praises of His name w^ere poured; 
Above us mighty organs roared. 

And hidden pipers blew and blew 
Such strains of heavenly accord. 

As never art attaineth to. 

The aisles were carpeted with flowers, 
The pews with emerald were plushed, 

And from a hundred wreathen towers. 
The silver chimes of morning gushed; 

(108) 



'TIS ALWAYS SUNDAY. , 109 

Anon, and all the space was hushed, 
As when, within cathedrals dim. 

The body of the Christ is crushed. 

And Christians quaff the blood of Him. 

'Tis always Sunday in the woods! 

The cattle down the valley pass, 
In lazy-moving multitudes, 

To where the river gleams like glass ; 
The birds, in one symphonic mass 

Of benedictions, flood the airs, 
And all the insect-haunted grass 

Is sibilant with whispered prayers. 

Around the rock-built altars crowd 

The patient oaks, as prone to pour 
Their poeans to the bannered cloud 

In golden glory floating o'er; 
Green-robed, they stand forevermore, 

Within their dreamy vastitudes. 
Devout as Druids to the core — 

'Tis always Sunday in the woods. 



FOB AN ALBUM. 

We shall meet, we shall greet, 

Where the bright lights quiver 
Over yonder, on the heights 

Of the interflowing river, — 
Over yonder where the moon 

With the shepherd-boy dallies, 
And the goat-foot Pan 

Goes piping down the valleys, — 
We shall meet, we shall greet, 

Where the warm sky showers 
The pearls of the planets 

On the fountains and the flowers,- 
Where the summer lies asleep 

On the wings of the swallows, 
And the nightingale sings 

In the dream-haunted hollows ; 
We shall meet, over there, 

On the sunny hills seven. 
In the Rome of the soul. 

In the Italy of Heaven. 

(110) 



WHEN YOUR FATHER WENT TO 
WAR. 

I. 

When your father went to war, Jennie, you 

were but a child, 
A romping little rowdy, running riotous and 

wild 
In the maple-shaded pasture, where our cot- 
tage used to stand. 
And we owned a timbered forty of the richest 

river land, — 
Y"es, owned it — every inch of it — by labor's 

hard decree. 
And none we thought, in all the world were 

happier than we. 
Our cattle browsed the summer hills, amid 

the blue-grass deep. 
And all the shady bottom-lands were snowy 

with our sheep; 

'Twas like a tale of fairy lore, the life that we 

lived then, 

(111) 



113 WHEN TOUR FATE EM WENT TO WAR. 

When I M'as barely twenty-six, and you were 

only ten; 
Love brought us peace and comfort, till there 

rose an evil star, 
In the summertime of plenty, when your 

father went to war. 



II. 



Ah, Jennie, I remember well the day, — 'twas 

late in June, 
Your father he came ridinof home from town 

one afternoon, 
And his face was pale and haggard as he 

reached the door, and threw 
One arm around me, daughter, while he laid 

one hand on you ; 
And as my senses faltered, and I reeled in his 

embrace, 
I read the fearful meaning that was written in 

his face, — 
I felt it in the bounding blood that beat 

against my breast, 
I needed not a spoken word, — too well I knew 

the rest: 



WHEN YOUR FATHER WENT TO WAR. 113 

And all that niglit in dreams I heard the 
tramp of marching feet, 

And far away I saw the flags grow dimmer 
down the street; 

'Twas long ago ! but O, my heart has not out- 
grown the scar 

God's finger put upon it, when your father 
went to war. 



III. 

Then you and I were left alone. "We tried a 

year or so, 
By hiring help, to scrimp along, but couldn't 

make it go; 
The Spring-floods swept away the corn, the 

drouth of Summer dried 
The grasses on the uplands, and we had no 

crops beside; 
So we parted with the cattle that we could no 

longer keep, 
"We sold the only team we had, and traded off 

the sheep; 
, And when the winds of Autumn shook the 

pipes about the eaves. 



114 WSEir TOXTR FATHER WENT TO WAR. 

And in the woodland hollows piled the brown 

October leaves, 
When the hazel-nuts were ripening in the old 

familiar copse, 
And the wild geese wedging southward, far 

above the maple-tops, 
We locked the dear old farm-house up, and 

closed the pasture bar, 
And moved into the village, when your father 

went to war. 



lY. 

Then Winter came — a dreary time — a night 

of hopes and fears, 
On every hand the widows wept, and fell the 

mothers' tears — 
A reign of blood and ruin! Every day some 

passing train 
Brought back a load of mangled men— brought 

back the coffined slain ; 
And Jennie, O, my Jennie, ere the snows of 

Winter passed, 
They bore your father back to us, — they 

brought him home at last; 



WHEN YOUR FATHER WENT TO WAR. 115 

They sent him from the frozen hills, beside 

the Tennessee, 
Borne down amidst the battle, where the 

bravest love to be ; 
They sent him back a mined man for life, 

alas, my child! 
I turned away in agony, I raved as one grown 

wild. 
But why recall the story now? The years 

have drifted far. 
And we've got used to trouble, since your 

father went to war. 



V. 

The times have changed. "We, too, have 

changed. To-night the blue and gray 
Sit round their fires with lighted pipes, and 

pufE their hates away, — 
Sit spinning yarns about their camps, until 

the drowsy stars 
Put out their light and wave " good night " 

across the twilight's bars. 
Although my heart be broken, and although 

my hair be white, 



116 WHEN TOUR FATHER WENT TO WAU. 

And 'though the years have brought me but 
disaster in their flight, 

I am wicked in my weakness, I am cruel to 
complain, 

When yonder patient sufferer sits smiling at 
his pain,— 

Sits crooning in the Autumn moon the bal- 
lads made to praise 

The luster of his daring in the old heroic 
days, — 

Sits dreaming, Jennie, dreaming, of the battle- 
fields that are 

The glory of the ages, since your father went 
to war. 



YI. 

A little while — it won't be long, until the sol- 
diers come 

And bear away their comrade to the dead- 
march of a drum. 

To the green hills over yonder, where eternal 
tents are spread. 

And no pensions are rejected in the domains 
of the dead ; 



WHEN TOUR FATHER WENT TO WAR. 117 

Where justice is no jester, and where glory- 
countersigns 

The muster-rolls of freedom as the century 
declines ; 

Yes, child, to that Republic where no partisan 
is found, 

Where the private is promoted and the poten- 
tate discrowned, 

Our loved one now is journeying; and as for 
you and me. 

It matters not, — the pottersfield our heritage 
may be; . 

The future frowns and threatens, but thank 
God it cannot mar 

The glory that we garnered when your father 
went to war. 



AN IN VOCATION. 

Spirit of Mercy ! draw near me, draw near me, 
Lean to me lovingly, comfort, and cheer me,- 
Hope have I none, if thou deign not to hear 
me. 

Spirit of Mercy ! encompass me, bless me, 
Close to thy bosom warm, clasp me, and press 

me, 
Clothe me with meekness — of sin dispossess 

me. 

Spirit of Mercy ! I reacli to thee, cling to thee. 
All my transgressions I prayerfully bring to 

thee; — 
Humbly my hands, in my weakness, I wring 

to thee. 

Spirit of Mercy ! uplift and uplead me, 
Up-tear from my pathway the snares that im- 
pede me, 
Sustain and support me, whenever the need be. 

(118) 



AW invocation: 119 

Spirit of Mercy ! of doubt disarray me, 
Dismantle my life of the lusts that dismay me, 
And strengthen my soul, when temptations 
waylay me. 

Spirit of Mercy! be nigh to me ever, 
Assist me — inspire me to higher endeavor — 
Forsake me, and frown on me, never — Oh 
never ! 

Spirit of Mercy ! I kneel to thee, kneel to thee. 
Trusting thro' darkness and discord, my weal 

to thee, — 
Queen of the Angels! thy sweetness unseal to 

me. 



A BALLADE OF BUSY DOCTORS. 

When winter pipes in the ]3oplar-tree, 

And soles are shod with the snow and 
sleet — 
"When sick-room doors close noiselessly, 

And doctors hurry along the street; 
"When the bleak north winds at the erables 
beat, 

And the flaky noon of the night is nigh, 
And the reveler's laugh grows obsolete, 

Then Death, white Death, is a-driving by. 

When the cowering sinner crooks his knee, 

At the cradle-side, in suppliance sweet. 
And friends converse in a minor key. 

And doctors hnrry along the street; 
When Croesus flies to his country seat, 

And castaways in the garrets cry. 
And in each house is a " shape and a sheet," 

Then Death, white Death, is a-driving by. 

(120) 



A BALLADE. 121 

WTien the blast of the autumn blinds the 

bee, 
And the long rains fall on the ruined 

wheat, 
When a glimmer of green on the pools we 

see, 

And doctors hurry along the street ; 
When every fellow we chance to meet 

Has a fulvous glitter in either eye, 
And a weary wobble in both his feet, 

Then Death, white Death, is a-driving by. 

£^nvoy. 

When farmers ride at a furious heat, 
And doctors hurry along the street. 

With brave hearts under a scowling sky^ 
Then Death, white Death, is a-driving by. 



GOOD-NIGHT, AND JOY BE WITH 
YOU ALL. 

The wind blows east, the wind blows west, 

The last dead leaf is on the tree, — 
Farewell the merry wine and jest. 

And all good fellows dear to me; 
Those raptnr'd hours with feathered feet. 

My aching heart would fain recall, — 
But, ah! 'tis ours no more to meet, 

Good-night, and joy be with you all 

The weary world sjsins 'round and 'round. 

And friends must part as friends have met; 
There is no spot of hallowed ground. 

If not where friendship's board is set; 
The wind blows west, the wind blows east, 

Our last bright cup is mixed with gall, — 
A death-head glimmers at the feast, 

Good-night, and joy be with you all. 

To-morrow comes, to-morrow goes, 

But yesterday returns no more; 
"We meet with these, we part with those, 

And eyes are dim, and hearts are sore; 

(122) 



OOOD-NIOHT AND JOT. 123 



A blinding mist obscures mj sight, 
My senses with their burden pall, — 

Time halts not in his rapid flight, 
Good-night, and joy be with you all. 



SHAKESPEAKE. 

His soul was like a palace wronght of glass, 
Star-stained and many-sided, and full- 
fraught 
"With all the fairest flowers of human 
thought, 
Outspread in one immeasurable mass, — 
A garden of cnravishments, where pass 
The rapt creations that his fancy caught 
From realms of being hitherto unsought, 
Or feebly sought, or fruitlessly, alas ! 
He peered through nature with a prophet's 
ken. 
He pierced her secrets with a poet's eye, — 
With passion, power, and high philosophy. 
He set the spirit's inner gates apart; 
He stripped the shackles from the souls of 
men, 
And sacked the fortress of the human 
heart. 

(124) 



SHAKESPEARE. 125 

The perfect model of the perfect mind ! 

Within the splicric fuHness of his sense, 

Within his kinglv sonl's circumference, 
The image of the universe was shrined; 
In lofty utterance his tongue outlined 

The golden orb of all intelligence ; 

He touched the circle of omnij)otence, 
Defining things no other ere defined. 
God made but one! the rack of centuries, 

The rolling chariot of resistless years, 

Leaves unbedimmed the amaranth he wears. 
His fame is co-eternal with the skies, 
His words are fadeless as our memories, 

His influence as deathless as our tears. 



THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 
I 

It was afternoon in Madrid, during Isabella's 

reign, 
When Ristori was playing in the caj)ital of 

Spain, 
That Nicholas Chapado, a Castilian soldier, 

lay 
"Within a dungeon doomed to die, at breaking 

of the day ; — 
A beardless boy and beautiful, with gentle 

voice and eye. 
For some offence of discipline, a felon's death 

must die; 
No pleading sister's upturned face — no 

mother's fond appeal, 
No sweetheart's eloquence could save the 

soldier of Castile, — 
And so a black-robed bellman, as the custom 

was, went down 
Collecting alms in all the streets and by-ways 

of the town, 

(136) 



THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 127 

Collecting alms to pay the priest to lift bis 

voice on high, 
In supplication for the soul of him who had 

to die. 



II 



The great Italian actress, standing at her 

window high, 
Saw the ghostly bellman ringing, and she 

turned and questioned " Why ?" 
And when a Spanish cavalier responded with 

the tale, 
The listening woman shuddered, and her 

cheeks grew chill and pale, 
Then, turning from the casement, where the 

sunlight softly fell, 
She saw no more the bellman, and she heard 

no more the bell; 
She only saw in fancy from a dungeon bare 

and gray, 
A lad led forth to slaughter, at the breaking 

of the day — 
A brave boy rudely ushered from a prison's 

rime and rot, 



128 THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 

To the sunshine of the citj, for an instant, to 

be shot; 
And her great heart sank within her, and her 

soul in sobs escaped, 
As she thought — the mimic empress — of the 

tragedies she aped. 



Ill 



And now 'twas night in Madrid, and the 

Zarzuela shone 
With oriental opulence, and splendor all its 

own; 
The bended balconies above, blazed like a 

triple chain. 
That belted in the beauty and the chivalry of 

Spain ; 
Proud Isabella from her box looked out with 

haughty grace. 
While the passions of a race of kings were 

pulsing in her face; 
Anon, amidst a clash of bells, and 'midst the 

crowd's acclaim. 
The pale Italian sorceress before the foot- 
lights came; 



THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 139 

A glory fell about lier, as her tragic spirit 

played 
On the passions of the Spaniards, in their 

royal pomp arrayed; 
She tranced them with her tenderness — she 

touched them as with steel — 
She broke a pathway to the coldest heart in 

old Castile. 



ly. 



'Twas midnight, and the play was done — the 

closing curtain fell, 
And Itistori was kneeling at the feet of 

Isabelle — 
Lo ! the mimic queen was pleading with an 

eloquence unknown. 
For Nicholas Chapado, to the queen upon the 

throne ; 
All motionless and silent stood the swarthy 

cavaliers. 
Their bosoms wrung with pity, as they leaned 

upon their spears ; 
'Twas the picture of a passion — 'twas a 

priestess of her art, 



130 THE SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 

At the feet of Mercy kneeling, with her 

pleading lips aj^art ; 
'Twas a woman's heart appealing — 'twas 

resistless as the seas, 
Or the rushing North that hurtles down the 

snowy Pyrenees; 
The haughty Queen was conquered — and that 

night the links of steel 
Fell, broken at her bidding, from the soldier 

of Castile. 



HER FEET ON THE FENDER. 

I. 

The winter blew chill, but the night it 
was white 
As the satiny sheen of the hand that I 
crushed, 
As we sat where the bright chandelier shed its ' 
light 
On her billowy curtains and ottoman 
])lushed ; 
It was middle December outside, but I swear, 
I could hear the birds sing, and could feel 
the Spring's splendor 
Blown into my blood, from her tropical hair. 
As she teetered her tender white feet on the 
fender. 

II. 

"We are wed, — and the days they have sped 
overhead 
Like the half-finished dreams of a lover, 
who lies 

(131) 



133 HBB t'EET ON THE EBNDEB. 

In the cool summer night, when the planets 
burn red 
Thro' the lattice that shadows his slumber- 
less eyes; — 
It is middle December, — the chandelier glows? 
And I fall to the floor in most servile sur- 
render, — 
And shel — "Well, I tickle her baby's pink toes, 
As she smilingly sews, with her feet on the 
fender. 



THE OLD VILLAGE DEPOT. 

There stands the old station-house, out in the 
rain, 
A stone's throw away from my door, 
With its wind-shaken wall, and its weather- 
racked pane. 
And its rickety, rat-haunted floor ; 
Its sashes are seamed, and its lintels are 
gashed, 
"With the jack-knives of twenty long years; 
And the eaves, wliere the wings of the swal- 
lows once flashed. 
Seem touched with a kinship of tears. 

Old house! it looms up like a ghost in the 
gale, 

And gibbers and groans in the blast. 
And speaks with a weird and a weariless M'ail, 

Of the dim, irretrievable past; 

On the old dingy platform that girdles it 

'round. 
The wealth of the prairie once poured, 

(133) 



134 THE OLD VILLAGE DEPOT. 

And daily the carriage of commerce came 
down 
With the wares of the stranger aboard. 

'Twas here, when our brothers went off to the 
wars, 
"\Ve blessed them and bade them adieu ; 
And we welcomed them, here, 'neath a banner 
of stars. 
When the terrible conflict was through; 
And here where the bare-footed boys are at 

play> 

The war trumpets thundered of yore, — 
And here came the coffins in ghastly array, 
Of the dear soldier-dead to our door. 



'Twas here the young bride in her beauty and 
bloom. 
To her cheek felt the parting kiss press'd, 
And here beat with rapture the heart of the 
groom, 
As he cradled her form on his breast; 
And here in his squalor the beggar has crept, 
To shelter himself from the blast, 



TEE OLD VILLAGE DEPOT. 135 

In the merciless midnight, and dreamed as he 
slept, 
Of the happier days of the past. 

And here came the message more fleet than 
the dove, 
O'er the wavering, wandering wire. 
That filled us with grief, or that thrilled us 
with love, 
As we peacefully sat by the fire ; 
Ah, the old station-house! it will soon tum- 
ble down, 
Its timbers are crumbling away; 
But its record is writ on tha heart of the 
town. 
And its glory abideth for aye. 



INDIAN" SUMMEK. 

Upon the bleak November hills ' 
A solitary bluebird trills 
His latest sono;, — and far alone: 
The russet upland loudly rings 
The lay the sturdy woodman sings. 

Beyond the pasture's hazel edge, 
From out the hollow's tangled sedge, 
The quail upsprings, on whirring wings, 
And down the stubble flutters fast. 
Before the hunter's heartless blast. 



From ont a moss-grown sugar-trough, 
A lonesome rabbit gallops olf 
Across the woods and solitudes. 
That rustle to the slightest stir 
Of dropping leaf and acorn-burr. 



In lazy aldermanic guise 
The yellow-breasted pawpaw lies. 
So snugly hid the leaves amid, 
That scarce a schoolboy's eager eye 
Can find it as he saunters by. 

(136) 



INDIAN SUMMER. 137 

In lines that waver and converge, 
The puzzled wild-ducks southward surge 
The live-long day, — while far away, 
A circling hawk is seen to swim 
Along the twilight's amber rim. 

The blue-jays on the windy oak 
Hold joyless jabber thro' the smoke 
Of these dim days; — while faintly strays 
From orchard haunts, and leafless groves. 
The murmur of the patient doves. 

Beyond the river's fringe of mist 
The wild vines climb and intertwist 
Their amorous shoots, rich-hung with 

fruits 
That froth with wine so ripe and fair 
The fairies fill their flagons there. 

Within the forest brown and seared, 
To-day no harsher sound is heard 
Than lisps of rills, and timorous trills 
Of birds that seek a shelter from 
The surly winter soon to come. 



138 INDIAN SUMMER. 

It were as if some sudden shock 

Had stopped the wheels of Nature's 

clock 
An instant, ere the flying year 
Sent forth his trumpeters to blow 
The signals of approaching snow. 

O glorious Indian Summer time! 
"Where is the country, where the clime, 
To match with this? O, land of bliss, — 
O, land of love, and light and flowers ! 
God made it last, and made it ours. 



LADY LAURA IN THE NORTH. 



Lady Laura, in the North, 

Leaning at her lattice high, 
Lingeringly looking forth. 

Saw the wild swan southward fly, — 
Heard afar the clanging cranes. 

Sweeping from the fields of snow. 
To the sun-lit, summer plains, 

Where the warm magnolias blow. 

II 

Lady Laura, looking south, 

Trembled like an aspen leaf, 
While around her perfect mouth, 

Crept the early curves of grief; 
All her life seemed but a ring 

Of remembrance, and regret, 
As she stood there quivering 

Like a wind-swayed violet, 

(139) 



140 LADY LAURA IN THE NORTH. 
Ill 

Lady Laura, lily-tall, 

Standing at her casement high, 
Saw the evening shadows fall, 

Saw the wild-birds homeward fly ; 
But she spake not any word. 

Staring hard against the sky, — 
Never any sound she heard 

Of the loud world rolling by. 

lY 

Lady Laura, leaning there. 

Lonely, in a land forlorn. 
Saw a child with sunny hair. 

Rise beyond the clouded corn ; — 
Fell her tears, like autumn rain, 

As she thought of one dark day. 
And a warrior lying slain. 

On the banks of Mobile Bay. 



Lady Laura — she is gone! 

Lonely is that lattice high, — 
Still forever flies the swan, 

Still the clanging cranes go by; 



LADT LAURA IN THE NORTH. 141 

In the North, a wanderer 

Chitches for a vanished hand ; 

Desolate idolater, — 

He can never understand. 



MEADOWS OF GOLD. 

Meadows of gold, — 

Rolling and reeling a-west! 
Ye clasp and hold 

The milk of the world in your breast. 
Ye are the nurses who clutch 
The ladies of life, and touch 
The lips that famish and burn, 
In agony cruel and stern. 

Meadows of gold, — 

Reaching and running away! 
Shod with the mold. 

And crowned with the light of the 
day. 
Ye are the chemists of earth, 
The wizards who waken to birth 
The violets blue, and butter-cups, too, 
Under the dark and the dew. 

Meadows of gold, — 

Winding and wending along, 
Fair to behold. 

And merry and mellow with song. 

(142) 



MEADOWS OF GOLD. 143 

Ye are the poets whose chimes 
Are rung by the reapers-whose rhymes 
Are written in windrows of grass, 
By musical sickles that pass ! 

Meadows of gold, — 

Laughing and leaping afar! 
Fast in your fold. 

Forever the beautiful are. 
Ye are the Hebes who dip, 
And lift from the loam to the lip, 
The nectar, whose plethoric flood 
Is tinted and turned into blood. 



AT UITCLE KEUBEN KAGAN'S. 

At Uncle Reubel Ragan's ! — why, the present 
is forgot 

At the very faintest mention of the old 
enchanted spot; 

And swifter than a swallow skimming down 
the dewy corn, 

My memory goes laughing back to boyhood's 
mellow morn, — 

And again I feel the breezes of the beech- 
woods on my cheek, 

As I pass with bow and arrow by the spring- 
house and the creek. 

And merrily wend onward to the Mecca of 
my joys, 

To spend a day in Paradise, with Uncle 
Keuben's boys. 

At Uncle Reuben Ragan's everything was 
fair and sweet. 

From the blue sky bending over, to the blue 
grass at our feet, — 

From the lisp and trill and twitter of the cat- 
bird and the lark, 

(144) 



AT UNCLE REUBEN RAGAN'8. 145 

To the wbippoorwill that whistled from the 

dingle thro' the dark; 
The days were full of riot, and the nights 

were full of rest 
As balmy as the moonlight on the squirrel's 

breezy nest: — 
As I plod the dim past over, and recount its 

keenest joys. 
My bare-foot fancy wanders off with Uncle 

Eeuben's boys. 

I can hear the walnuts dropping in the 

pasture, as of old, 
I can see the russets rounding into solid 

globes of gold ; 
I can see the bearded chestnuts clinging to the 

browning boughs, 
In the corner of the orchard, just beyond the 

saddle-house ; 
I can hear the cider gushing from the mill, 

just over there, 
On the slope, across the hollow, in the cool 

October air: — 
O, I live the old life over, in my fancy, as my 

mind 



146 AT UNO LB REUBEN BAOAN'8. 

Re-pictures and re-peoples every scene it left 
behind. 

The little stream that toddled down the yard, 

and slipped away 
Thro' the pasture, still is tinkling in my 

memory to-day, 
And the barn that stood beyond it, seems to 

beckon to me still, 
"With its ever-greedy rat-traps, and its old 

red fanning mill; 
And the plum-patch in the garden, and the 

tall mulberry tree, 
That grew beside the milk-house, are a-calUng 

back to me, — 
And again the maple sugar is a-trickling off 

my tongue, 
Into streams of sweeter music than my lips 

have ever sung. 

Count my fingers three times over, and they 

scarce make up the years 
That have vanished, like a vision, in the 

torrent of my tears. 
Since the happy days of boyhood, ere the 

green earth claimed its own, 



AT UNCLE REUBEN HAGAN'S. 147 

And Uncle sank to slumber in the shadow of 
the stone : — 

Gone the many forms and faces — but a scat- 
tered few remain, 

To meet us, and to greet us, at the old home- 
stead again; 

And I — well, here I'm sitting 'neath my 
pines in Illinois, 

And drinking cider — in my dreams — "with 
Uncle Eeuben's boys. 



THE NIGHT YOU QUOTED BURKS 
TO ME. 

The winds of early autumn blew 
Across the midnight. Overhead 
A wild moon np the heavens fled, 

And cut the sable vault in two; 

We heard the river lap and flow, 
We turned our poet-fancies free — 

My heart did all its cares forego, 
The night you quoted Burns to me. 

A gray owl from a blasted limb, 

Dropped down the dark, and blundered by, 

As if a fiend with flaming eye 
Fast-followed in pursuit of him; 
Ah, then you crooned beneath the moon, 

A ditty weird as weird could be — 
And Tam O'Shanter crossed the Doon, 

The night you quoted Burns to me. 

We praised the " Lass o' Ballochmyle," 
We talked of Mary, loved and lost, 
Until our spirits touched and crossed. 

And melted into tears, the while ; 

(148) 



THE NIOHT TOU QUOTED BURNS. 149 

We drank to " Nell," and " Bonnie Jean," 
To " Chloris," and the " Banks o' Cree,"— 

Blest hour! I keep its memory green, 
The night you quoted Burns to me. 

The "Wabash hills their heads low hung, 
As floating up their winding ways 
They caught the sound of " Logan Braes," 

And heard "Sweet Af ton's" glory sung; 

And loud the "Wabash did deplore 
That no brave poet-voice had she. 

To lend her fame, forevermore, 

The night you quoted Burns to me. 

O dear, delightful autumn night, 

Forever gone beyond recall ! 

Comrade, the clouds are over all, 
And you — you've vanished from my sight; 
Still flows the river as of yore, 

The owl still haunts the lonely tree. 
And I'll forget, ah, nevermore, 

The night you quoted Burns to me. 



THE MYSTERY OF BARRINGTON 
MEADOWS. 

Over the Barrington meadows a riderless 
steed, 

Whiter than moon -down mist, and swifter of 
speed 

Than a skirring swallow, cleaves the shim- 
mering light, 

Ghost-like, galloping ever and on thro' the 
night. 

Up from the Barrington meadows a cold face 

peers 
For aye, at the stars, and the winds, and the 

shifting years. 
While the low, perpetual sobs of a woman 

rim 
The night with an agony vague as a dream 

and dim. 

Over the Barrington meadows, and on to the 

morn 
Go reeling the Bacchanal bats thro' the 

blasted corn, 

(150) 



THE MT8TEBT. 151 

While a blood-red poppy bends in tlie moon 

and pleads, 
All night, for the soul of one lying stark in 

the reeds. 

Down in the Barrington meadows a dolorous 
rune 

Climbs up thro' the curling mist to the 
marble moon, 

And ever the girdling clouds and the curdling 
airs 

Are pale with the gibbering ghosts of un- 
heard prayers. 

Down in the Barrington meadows a death- 
bird rings 

The ominous sky with the rush of invisible 
wings, — 

And sibilant sighs from the shuddering 
grasses rise 

Like shrieks of the doomed, at the bars of 
Paradise. 

Down in the Barrington meadows the flowers 

are nursed 
In the poisonous blood-wet loam of a land 

accursed, 



153 THE MYSTERY. 

And rank as death is the pool at the root of 

the reed, 
"Where drinks each night the wraith of the 

flying steed. 

Down in the Barrington meadows the snake's 

swift eyes 
Are hot in the tangled sedge where the dead 

man lies; 
And beetles black as the slayer's soul, 

disport 
Over the crumbling palace where Life held 

court ! 

Down in the Barrington meadows a swart 

lagoon 
Chafes under the guilty scowl of the pallid 

moon, 
And penitent lilies, drugged with the dew 

and slime, 
Quake with the conscious dread of a nameless 

crime. 

But the spectral steed flies on, and the night- 
rains beat 



THE MYSTERY, 153 

Down on the crumpled heads of the ruined 

wheat, — 
And strong men start, aghast, with a stifled 

cry, 
When the wraith-like, horrible hoofs of the 

horse go by. 



WHEK I AM OLD. 

"When I am old, 
And pass into my dimmer days, 

To wither and repine, — 
Will ever minstrel wake my praise. 

Or lisp one lay of mine, — 
When my proud spirit's fires are cold, 
And I am old? 

When 1 am old, 
A rivelled, wrinkled mass of mould. 

And on my cheerless hearth, 
I heed no more my prattling fold, 

Nor any sound of mirth, — 
Shall I to dust go unconsoled, 
When I am old? 

When I am old. 
And seek no more to garner gold, 

And o'er my sightless eyes. 
The lilies of the grave unfold 
Their petals to the skies, — 
Shall I be slighted, scorned, cajoled, 
When I am old? 

(154) 



WHEN I AM OLD. 155 

"When I am old, 
And, like a sear leaf on the wold, 

Tremble at every gale, 
My deeds, — will they be unextoUed, 

My loss, will none bewail, — 
AVill Peace her just rewards withhold, 
"When I am old ? 



THE PASSING OF THE OLD YEAR. 

I. 

With stormy glances backward bent, 
And rivalled lips and wrinkled hands, 

He steps at midnight from his tent, 
And hobbles down the frozen lands. 

II. 

Lear-like, he stands against the storm, 
His tattered raiments blown apart, — 

His withered form no fire can warm, 
Nor thaw the life-blood at his heart. 

IIL 

Like some grim Yiking of the North 
Retreating from a plundered ship, 

The gray-beard pilgrim presses forth, 
With scowling brow, and scornful lip. 

IV. 

In moody silence moving on, 

He melts into the moonless night, 

And ere the bells ring up the dawn. 
His struggling spirit wings its flight. 

(156) 



AN EXTRAYAGANT SIMILE. 

The prairie, like a paper, lies unfolded at my 
feet — 

'Tis the Autumn's last edition — 'tis her illus- 
trated sheet — 

"Nature's Quarterly!" I whisper, as my rov- 
ing fancy reads 

The " gossip " of the golden-rods, the " chit- 
chat" of the weeds; — 

The " poems " of the meadows, lying scattered 
here and there, 

The " stories " of the stubble, in full column 
everywhere, — 

The "advertising " acres, and the " editorial" 
plots. 

And the " parenthetic" fences round the "par- 
agraphic " lots. 

Each page is highly colored, and around the 

margin runs 
A forest, like a ribbon, stained with many 

summer suns ; — 

(157) 



158 AN EXTRAVAGANT SIMILE. 

The " picture " of a village in the middle col- 
umn lies, 

"Whose tinted houses glimmer with at least a 
dozen djes ; 

And sprinkled o'er the pages, everywhere, in 
gold and green, 

The dwellings of the farmers, with their 
strawstacks in between; — 

'Tis a holiday edition, and I cannot help but 
think 

It was stereotj^ped in Heaven, and God put on 
the ink. 



THE PIONEERS. 



Here where the bannered corn and bristling 
wheat 
Toss their proud tresses to the rustling 
breeze ; 
Here where the arteries of commerce beat, 

Thro' laughing lands of luxury and ease, — 
Where lazy cattle crop the summer leas. 

And singing rivers woo the golden sand ; 
Here where the poor man for his labor sees 

Perennial plenty rise on every hand, 
We dwell — the youngest heirs of Freedom's 
holy land. 

II 

Where yonder marble city tops the plain. 

And shining temples in the sunset glow, 
Where wealth and beauty hold perpetual 
reign. 
And busy hands the seeds of progress 
sow, — 
In that same spot, a few short years ago, 

(159) 



160 THE PIONEERS. 

The cabin of the swarthy pioneer, 
In cheerless solitude, surpassing show. 

Nurtured beneath its roof the hearts that 
were 
To build the Empire of the western hemi- 
sphere. 

Ill 

The giants of the infant world, who slew 

The dragons of the wilderness, were they ; 
Along the lakes and by the mountains blue, 

They burned the stubborn barriers away. 
And blazed a passage for the brighter day, 

With ringing axes in the forest deep ; 
Their glory is our own ! and I would pay 

The feeble tribute of my verse, to keep 
Their hardships unforgot, while we their 
blessings reap. 

IV 

They dammed the rivers, and they built the 

mills, 
Tliey trapped the beaver, and they tracked 

the bee; 
They harvested the wild grapes on the hills, 



THE PIONEERS. 161 

And steeped the fragrant sassafras for tea, 
Stealing their sugar from the maple tree ; 
The bloodroot, mandrake, and the bitter- 
sweet, 
All precious herbs, and bountiful and free, 
Outspread their healing virtues at their 
feet, — 
Nature's apothecaries in her rude retreat. 



For them the plum tree shed its purple fruit. 

In gleaming nuggets, 'midst the thicket's 
shade ; 
In Spring, the wild strawberry's tender shoot, 

Bediamonded with crimson jewels, made 
The hollows glitter like a masquerade; 

Then Autumn with her brown nuts came 
at last. 
Pouring her cornucopia in the glade. 

Ere surly winter blew his chilly blast 

Upon the naked flats and sealed his larder 

fast. 
11 



162 TEE PIONEERS. 

YI 

And then the snows came, and the squirrel 
slept 
Within the upper chambers of the oak; 
And thro' the night the watchful rabbit leapt, 

And the wild fox within his den awoke. 
The darkness buttoned 'round him like a 
cloak, 
And pausing, listened for the crowing cock; 
Afar the wolf's howl thro' the forest broke, 
And the brusque owl sat hooting on the 
rock, 
And preening the feathers of his antique 
frock. 

YII 

And Summer carpeted with shining flowers 
The old primeval temples, and the song 

Of wild birds pierced the uninvaded bowers. 
With endless melody, when days were long. 

And hearts were innocent, and hands were 
strong, 
And love as guileless as the feet were free ; 

And Eden streams, the Eden fields among, 



THE PIONEERS. 163 

Ran dimpling to the lakes and to the sea, 
Like unwatched children in their idle revelry. 

YIII 

But those were troublous times, and fell 
disease 
Lurked like a demon in the stagnant 
swamp, 
Amidst the shadows of the cypress trees, 

"Where the dull fire-fly lit his chilly lamp, 
And the sleek lizard slumbered in the damp. 

Beside the reeking serpent and the newt; 
Contagion strode with no unsteady tramp, 
Beneath the roof, and plucked the heart's 
best fruit, 
And draped the lonesome soul with agony 
acute. 

IX 

Anon, upon the sloping upland shone 

Kew billows of brown earth, unseen 
before, — 
"With, here and there, a strangely-shapen 
stone, 
"Wraith-like, uprising from the tufted floor, 



164 THE PIONEERS. 

With reeling lines of grief engraven o'er 
Its ghastly facets, by some finger rude ; 
(Death laughs to scorn the legends on his 
door, 
Whether within the dim wood's solitude, 
Or in the gilded shrines, where giddy crowds 
intrude.) 

X 

Ah! there were dangers, — there were acci- 
dents 

By flood and field of which we little wot ; 
The tempest pitched its melancholy tents 

Above the forest, and the lightning hot 
Flashed thro' the roaring, reeling oaks, and shot 

Its flaming bolts along each toppling height; 
Trailing its terrors o'er the settler's cot, 

And marking in the fury of its flight. 
Forsooth, a smoking track of ruin, wreck and 
blight. 

XI 

Death came in many forms, — the vengeful 
snake 
Unloosed its venom with unerring aim; 



THE PIONEERS. 165 

The burly black bear loitered in the brake, 

And nightly to the hill the panther came, 
And stealthily outstretched its agile frame, 
To watch and seize the unresisting prey; 
Aye, there were perils more than tongue can 
name, 
That compassed those old foresters, — yet 
they 
With souls of flint, toiled on, thro' all that 
twilight grey. 

XII 

Around their huts the wily Indian crept. 

His shaft as sudden as the serpent's sting, 
And many a weary mother, as she slept, 
Was startled by the war-whoop's dismal 
ring, 
The hiss of arrow and the twang of string, 
Or the fierce tumult of the savage horde. 
Beneath the wood, in their wild jargoning; 
And many a cabin by the torch was low- 
ered. 
And many a father's blood around his altar 
poured. 



166 THE PIONEERS. 

XIII 

And prattling boys the rifle learned to wield, 

"With fatal skill, — the pioneers' first trade, — 
To them the bounding buck was forced to 
yield 
His life blood, in the leafy ambuscade, 
Where, all unharmed, for ages he had strayed; 

Heroic boyhood ! never belted knight 
With dangling plume, more hardihood dis- 
played 
In civil conflict, or in foreign fight. 
Than daily marked the lives of those of whom 
I write. 

XIV 

All night within the clearing gleamed their 
fires, 
The dawn-lights of the splendor yet to 
come; 
The wilderness reeled back before our sires, 
And Sharon's rose, deep-rooted in the 
gloom. 
In virgin beauty bursted into bloom, 

And shook its fragrant petals o'er the sod ; 



TEE PIONEEES. 167 

Swift fingers sped the shuttle thro' the loom, 

And Titan forms amid the dark hills trod, 
In nigged splendor they, true oracles of God. 

XV 

With hands inured to toil, and hearts to love, 
The border prophets taught the Word 
divine ; 
In lowly chapel and sequestered grove, 

Their eloquence burned thro' the soul like 
wine. 
And drew the evil-doer to the shrine 

Of wholesome virtue, rectitude, and grace ; 
They tamed the recreant with words benign. 

And brightened every hope-abandoned face. 
With blessed comfortings — these Cartwrights 
of the race. 

XYI 

But they are gone, — the old plantocracy, — 
They've withered from the green-wood, one 
and all ; 
Above their dust the wind howls dolefully, 
And the last coon-skin moulders on the 
wall; 



168 THE PIONEERS. 

All, all, are gone, — and darkness like a pall, 

Steals o'er the mem'ry of the pioneers; 
We drink the honey, where they quaffed the 
gall, 
"We reap the fruitage of their bitter years. 
And o'er their slumbers deep, outpour the 
meed of tears. 



XYII 

Soft be their pillow in the forest old. 

And sweet the psalmody of bird and bee! 
Their deeds by distant ages shall be told. 

Their virtues be transplanted o'er the sea; 
Their valor built the newer heraldry. 

And shook the despot on his ancient 
throne. 
And brought imperial armies to their knee; 

They were our sires, their glory is our own, 
From sainted Washington, to brave old 
Daniel Boone. 



TAKING IN THE HAMMOCK. 

O, relic sweet of summer rest, 

What fond mementoes are you keeping 
Of lier, the beautiful, who pressed 

Her pretty cheek to you, while sleeping? 

I see a withered rose-leaf, there. 
Among your tangles intertwisted — 

And here a tress of golden hair, 
That many a patient plea resisted. 

This faded ribbon round yonr throat. 
Is one that I had given to her, — 

And here I lind a crumpled note. 
The relic of a rival wooer. 

Ah, Hammock, 'pon my soul, I say. 
You're like a naughty, tattling lover, 

Who, when his mistress is away, 
Keeps wearilessly prating of her. 

Next summer, when I hang you out 
Between the pine-tree and the maple, 

You'd best be cautious, thereabout. 
And less familiar with my Mabel. 

(169) 



AT CHKISTMAS EYE. 

I. 

O wind of December! 

Blow high! blow low! 
Blow out of the north — blow over the snow! 

Blow! Blow! 
Blow out of the east — blow out of the west — 
Blow over the hills by the cuckoo's nest! 
Blow, O wind, as j^ou used to blow, 

In the wild, white night 

Of a boy's delight. 
In the Christmas time of the Long Ago. 

II. 
O fire of December, 
Glimmer and glow! 
Burn like the heart of a boy I know — 

Burn! burn! 
Burn till the pippins burst, and then 
Burn till the pop-corn fills the pan ! 
Burn, O fire, till the midnight chime 
Shall beckon to bed 
Each golden head. 
To dream the dreams of the Christmas time. 

(170) 



THE OLD MAJOR SPEAKS. 
I. 

Long, long, has been the journey, but the end 

is drawing near, 
We started out at dawn, good wife, and now 

the dusk is here ; 
Long, long, has been the journey that our 

weary feet have made, 
And the hopes we held the dearest, at the 

dawning, have decayed; 
A storm came up the valley, as we crossed the 

Great Divide, 
And two who traveled with us, then, fell 

stricken at our side, — 
Fell, shivered in the blast of death, that round 

us blew and beat, — 
Fell, where their bleeding bodies paved the 

path for Freedom's feet — 
And when at last the storm was past, and all 

the sky grew fair, 
"We found the channels on our cheeks, the 

silver in our hair. 

(171) 



172 TEE OLD MAJOR SPEAKS. 

II. 

But dry your tears, my own good wife! loop 

up your locks of gray, 
And slip the glasses off your eyes, and cheat 

the years, to-day, — 
For tlio' the snow be on the roof, the frost be 

on the pane, 
Some blossoms of the early spring within our 

hearts remain; 
Still on these bleak December boughs, fast 

falling to decay. 
In fancy I can see, to-night, again the blooms 

of May,— 
Can hear the robin fluting on the old familiar 

tree. 
The babble of the brook below — the bluster 

of the bee — 
Can see the lilac blushing still, beside the gar- 
den walk. 
And hear the jewelled humming-bird upon the 

hollyhock. 

III. 

Tho' long has been the journey, wife, that we 
have had to go. 



THE OLD MAJOR SPEAKS- 173 

The skies are bright above us, noio — the winds 

no longer blow, — 
Across the valley, yonder, I can see the open 

sea. 
Where the ships are sailing outward to our 

" ain countree," — 
I can hear the sailors singing — I can see the 

crowded shore. 
Where the signal lights are burning, and the 

banners blowing o'er; 
We are listed for the voyage, — soon we'll 

reach the harbor- gate, 
Where the boats come up to anchor, and we 

wont have long to wait, — 
And when the Captain calls us, be it dark, or 

be it light, 
We'll climb aboard the stately ship, and bid 

the world, " Good-night^ 



A GARLAND FOE THE DEAD. 

Dumb be the bugle and the drum, 

And light the footstejDS o'er the brave; 

'Tis not in festal throng we come, 

With lips that laugh, and plumes that 
wave; 

Nay ! nay ! a holier task is ours, 

Love writes his elegy with flowers. 

When May drops down the rolling year, 
And lightly leads her choral train. 

We turn with loving homage here. 
To strew these tokens o'er the slain — 

O'er those who perished when the tide 

Of wild war swept the country wide. 

Each rounded fortress at our feet 
Enwraps a hero's patriot fire, — 

Long since that heart has ceased to beat. 
That valiant spirit to aspire ; 

Nor sabre's clang, nor cannon's roar. 

Shall break the warrior's slumber more. 

(174) 



A GARLAND FOR THE DEAD. 175 

Among the tombs we idly stray, 

Our souls with mournful memories rife, 

Till almost in the glare of day, 

Those wasted comrades spring to life; 

And here, amidst the fields and flowers, 

"We seem to clasp dead hands in ours. 

Nor here alone does memory trace 
Her sable lines of dumb despair, — 

On many a distant battle-place. 
Their eyeless sockets upward stare, 

Where never weeping kindred come. 

With bended head and muffled drum. 

They sleep beside the Tennessee, 
By Donelson's old ruined fort; 

In Sherman's pathway to the sea 
The pale battalions hold their court; 

From Franklin, Shiloh, Malvern Hill, 

They answer to the death-roll still. 

On Mission Kidge the wild birds chant 
Above the gray blouse and the blue. 

And where the gallant hosts of Grant 
Stormed Vicksburg, there the dead are, 
too; 



176 A GARLAND FOB THE DEAD. 

Their records, writ with shot and shell, 
Show how thej fought, and how they fell. 

They rest by Libby's ruined pile, 

From Georgia's hell their wraiths arise; 

They sleep beside the dark Belle Isle, 
And 'neath the Carolina skies, — 

A shadowy band and desolate, 

Whose graves no hand may decorate. 

By dim lagoons where serpents trail, 
And seldom human footsteps pass; 

Their bones are whitening in the gale, 
And glistening in the tangled grass; 

Their guns still mould'ring in their grasp, 

The friends that felt their parting clasp. 



The pyramids by Cheops built 

At length shall crumble and decay, 

But never blood for Freedom spilt 
The tears of heaven shall wash away; 

A sacred symbol shall it be 

Of those who died for liberty. 



THE FOOLISH MAEINERS. 

{Fo7' the Children.) 

They set us afloat in a willow boat, 

Upon a northern sea, 
And we drifted on thro' dusk and dawn, 

As merry as men could be ; 
The air was white to left and right, 

And white was the air before. 
But behind our bark tlie world was dark. 

And we heard the kraken roar. 

As we passed the lair of the Polar bear, 

We called aloud to him, 
And he came to the door, and sniffed and 
swore. 

And stroked his eyebrows grim, — 
Then buttoned his coat about his throat. 

And galloped along in our train, 
So far and fast, that he froze at last, 

And never got home again. 

We shook our fist at the fog and mist. 
All under the Arctic Zone, 

1 3 (1'7) 



178 THE FOOLISH MARINERS. 

And sailed away, from day to day, 
So jolly, and cold, and lone, — 

So jolly and cold, so free and bold, 
A curious sight were we, 

A- sailing away from day to day. 
Upon the northern sea. 

And round about and in and out, 

Wherever the breeze up-blew. 
With shout and song we swept along, 

An hundred summers through ; 
Yet day by day we all turned gray. 

And skinny, and grim, and wild, — 
But the captain he, and the mate and me, 

We sat, and smiled, and smiled. 

I smiled at the mate, and the captain, 
straight, 

He grinned at the mate and me, 
And to lessen the weight we killed and ate 

The rest of the crew, you see; 
Then the captain he grew fond of me, 

And 1 grew fond of the mate, 
And all together we killed each other. 

And ate, and ate, and ate. 



THE FOOLISH MARINERS. 179 

Now, harken here, my children dear, 

If ever you put to sea, 
Kemember the mate, and the captain's fate. 

And the end that came to me; 
Bad luck to the day we sailed away, 

In search of the Northern Pole, — 
My skeleton lies under Arctic skies, 

And the good Lord has my soul. 



SONNETS AND RONDEAUX 



TO A SLEEPING BOY. 

Ah, little dreamer! stealing from the day, 
The golden keystone of the arching hours, 
To lay thy drowsy head among the flowers, 

And down Lethean waters sail away! 

Tlie wind is in thy ringlets, boy, and they, 
In flossy tumult, fall in fairy showers 
Around thy cheek, and all thy childish 
powers 

Are chained in sleep, beneath the sun's 
bright ray. 

The beetle, droning in the apple tree. 
Thy mate is, and the whistling bobolink 

Pipes half his sweetest roundelays to thee ; 

Sleep, little truant, in the singing grass ! 
The days will wither, and the years will 
shrink, 

And all too soon thy rosy dreams will pass. 

(183) 



A NIGHT m JUKE. 

Upon the cooling summer grass the dark 
Falls lightly, and the panting violet 
Uplifts its purple lip and lash of jet, 

To sip the slow-descending dews. The lark 

Is softly sleeping, pillowed in an ark 
Of sighing grasses, like some old regret 
Couched in the bosom of an anchoret. 

Amid dead loves that rattle stiff and stark. 

The crooked moon is peering thro' the pines, 
And checkering the lawn with leaves of 
light, 

And belting all the dim fields with broad 
lines, 
That stretch like silver ribbons throuerh 
the night; 

Stars on the grass, and fire-flies on the vines, 
And sorrow in the breast of every wight. 

(184) 



WHEN I COME HOME. 

When I come home, my labors ihrough, 

Between the day-fall and the dew, 
There comes a sound of nimble feet 
Swift-flying down the path to meet 

My own — with laughter and halloo. 

The cares that day by day accrue, 
Turn backward and no more pursue, — 

Turn back from this, my welcome sweet, 
When I come home. 

If I, beyond the welkin blue, 
Shall e'er go thither to renew 

My life so frail and incomplete — 

I only hope some boy will greet 
Me there — ^just as my own boys do, 
When I come home. 

(185) 



AT MILKING TIME. 

At milking time, when shadows climb 
The pasture-bars, and sheep bells chime 
High up along the sunset hill, — 
'Tis sweet to wander where we will, 
And take no thought of care or time. 

The heart of boyhood in its prime 
Lights up with joy the cheek of grime, 
"When katydids come out and trill, 
At milking time. 

There's not in any land or clime, 
An hour so sacred, so sublime, 
As that when patient kine distill 
The wines of life, in many a rill 
Of rippling and resilient rhyme, 
At milking time. 

(186) 



OCTOBEK. 

Upon the dreamy upland aureoled, 

I saw the sombre artist, Autumn, stand, 
Ghostlike, against the dim and shadowy 
land. 
Limning the hills with purple and with gold ; 
And while I gazed a mighty mist uprolled, 
As at the touch of some enchanter's wand, — 
And all the woods by sudden winds were 
fanned. 
And darkness fell upon the amber wold. 
Out of the frosty north, like Indian arrows, 
In never-falt'ring flight, the wild ducks 
flew; 
And from the- windy fields the summer 
sparrows 
Reluctantly their feathery tribes with- 
drew, — 
As from the heart the hopes of manhood fly, 
"When the sad winter of old age draws nigh. 

(187) 



KOYEMBER. 

Deep lie the shadows on the russet slopes, 
Loud blows the wind and shrilly falls the 

hail ; 
The tangled sedge-grass closes o'er the 
quail, 
And on the withered hill the woodchuck 

mopes, 
A dusky image of disastered hopes, 

Against whose roof the ruthless storms 

prevail ; — 
November! and the farmer hunts the flail, 
And puny Autumn poets seek for tropes. 
Alack-a-day ! that Nature e'er should robe her 
Glorious form in gloomy garbs like these; 
Alas! the faded splendor of October, 

The summer gone, and its Arcadian ease; 
The lengthened year is glimmering to its 

close, 
Mid piping tempests, and descending snows. 

(188) 



WHEKE WILLIE WAS. 

Where Willie was, the daylight dies, 

And deathlike silence overlies 

The greensward and the garden, where 
His baby feet, once brown and bare, 

Went pattering under summer skies. 

Now stilled for aye the childish cries, 
And hushed the tender lullabies 
A mother sang, at twilight, there. 
Where Willie was. 

And I — I marvel if those eyes. 

Unsealed in 3'onder Paradise, 

Look, ever, down the shining stair 
Upon the little empty chair. 

And scattered playthings that we prize. 
Where Willie was. 

(189) 



IK DAYS TO COME. 

(to j. av. k.) 

In days to come, when you and I 
"Wax faint and frail, and heartiires die, 

And tinkling rhymes no more obey 

The wooing lips of yesterday, 
How slowly will the hours go by. 

When we have drained oiir song-cups dry, 
My comrade, shall we sit and sigh. 
Childlike, o'er joys too sweet to stay. 
In days to come? 

Nay! nay! we'll give old time the lie. 

And, thatched with three score years, we'll try 

A rondeau or a roundelay, 

As long as any lute-string may. 

To our light touches, make reply — 

In days to come. 

(190) 



CHRISTMAS MORNING. 

And now the good St. Nick is come and gone, 
And many a fluffy head bursts into flower, 
Above the blanket, at the twilight hour, 

With darting eyes that dip into the dawn, 

Seeking the cheery chimney -jamb, whereon 
Tlie pouting stocking, like some toppling 

tower, 
Breaks with its weight, and splits into a 
shower 

Of broken rainbows, round a tropic zone. 

The sun climbs up and on ! the merry chime 
Of mellow sleigh-bells tinkle o'er the snow; 

Each crimpled shrub is rimpled up with rime, 
And from the eaves the long icicles grow. 

Till night steals on, and moonbeams through^ 
the trees 

Kiss down our lids to pleasant memories. 

(191) 



DOOM. 

There is a legend by the Norsemen told, 
How Odin to each field of battle sends 
His priestess, Yalkjr, at whose finger-ends 
The spools of destiny are all unrolled; 
Pallid as Parian marble and as cold, 

She passes where the thickest carnage 

trends, 
Ambassadress of doom to foes and friends. 
Marking for speedy death the strong and 

bold. 
So, in the silent nnderlands of life, 

Concealed amidst the sunshine, airy forms 
And subtle, sit perpetually and spin 
The tangled toils that trip us in the strife, — 
They braid the lightning and unbind the 
storms, 
And ope the gates for death to enter in. 

(192) 



KONDEAUX OF EEMEMBRANCE. 

In airy halls they dwell, to day, 
These friends of ours! — On every spray, 
Again the blooms of summer cling. 
Again the bonnie blue-birds sing, 
But they come not, for aye and aye. 

We hear their voices far away. 
Beyond the night, beyond the day. 
Beyond the sound of sorrowing. 
In airy halls. 

They lived — they loved — the Blue and Gray, 
They fought as brave men fight, alway, — 

They fell — God knows their suffering! 

God knows we wept when Death's fell sting 
First set their stormy souls astray, 
In airy halls. 

They're now at rest! 'No bugle's bray, 
No sound of flute, no virelay, 

No murmur of returning spring, 

Nor any wild-bird's caroling. 
Can wake them more — ah, well-a-day ! 

1 3 (193) 



194 RONDBAUX OF REMEMBRANCE. 

Beneath the loving light of May, 
Where we our tender tributes pay, 
In tears of sweet remembering, 
They're now at rest. 

"We sigh — we sing in strains that say, 
To them whose brows are bound with bay, 
"God bless you !" while we wreathe and ring 
Their tombs with amaranth. A king 
For such a death might pray, but they — 
They're now at rest. 



DR. JOHN A. WARDER. 

(aeboeicultukist.) 

His was the gentle spirit of the woods, 
The genius of the tongueless mysteries, 
Eternally that dwell within the trees, 

The flowers, the grasses, and the bursting 
buds; 

A member of their secret brotherhoods. 
He caught the everlasting symphonies 
Of all the lute-lipped leaves. He held the 
keys 

Of Nature's variant moods and solitudes. 

A Druid gray, his loving life-blood leapt 
In transport tremulous, beneath the power 

Of beauty and of symmetry that slept 
"Within the petals of the frailest flower ; 

Sweetest of all the songless bards ! he kept 
His great soul stainless in his Eden-bower. 

(195) 



A BLUEBIRD IN JANUARY. 

A ballet-dancer in a church yard, thou, — 
A jester in a charnel-house — a gleam 
Of sunlight falling on a frozen stream — 
A sapphire shining on an Ethiop's brow I 
O, bluebird lone, perched on that withered 
bough, 
Come whistle round our doorway, till we 

dream 
That winter days are over, and the beam 
Of jocund summer glitters on the plow. 
The mellow ditties of thy dapper throat 
Fill all the icy air with phantom Springs, — 
And plumaged pipers with a rush of 
wings, 
Seem swarming hither at thy venturous note; 
But, ah, brave minstrel, bleaker days 

must be 
Ere blooms the buttercup and hums the bee. 

(196) 



COULD SHE BUT KNOW ? 

Could she but know the love that stings 
My panting heart, and beats its wings 

Against my lips, in dire distress, 

I wonder if the sorceress 
Would deign to soothe its claraorings ? 

Could she but know the secret springs 
That feed my soul with sufferings. 

Would she the bitter pangs make less,- 
Could she but know? 

Could she but know the doubt that flings 
Its shadow o'er my heart, and brings 
Destroying nights of sleeplessness, — 
O would her pitying lips express 
One word, — and end my torturings. 
Could she but know? 

(19V) 



COULD LOYE DO MOKE. 

Could love do more? He laid his hand 

Upon the battle-axe and brand, 

And through the conflict's tire and smoke, 
Flashed swift and keen his sabre stroke. 

At her imperious command. 

He won renown in all the land, 
Eor her sweet sake, — that he might stand. 
Triumphant, and her love invoke — 
Could love do more? 

Alas ! she scorned him. Pale and blandj 
He turned away. Upon the strand. 

They found him when the morning broke. 
With blood upon his brow and cloak. 
And only sAe could understand: — 
Could love do more ? 

(198) 



MY FAYORITE POEM. 

It is a little volume, velvet-faced, 

Lettered with blue, and flecked with pink 

and white, 
With flowers of fancy daintily bedight, 
On leaves of lilied purity, and graced 
With quaint designs, inwrought and inter- 
laced, 
That touch the critic sense with keen 

delight, — 
And on the first page. Love's own copy- 
right. 
In lines of beauty delicately traced. 
A miracle of poetry ! Each day 

I re-peruse it, for within it lies 
A dream of joy that charms my cares away, 

And opes for me the gates of Paradise ; 
'Nor can I from its sweet enchantment stray, 
The wondrous epic of my haby^s eyes, 

(199> 



DEATH,— WHAT IS IT ? 

It is a peaceful end of all desire, 

An end of dreaming, and an end of song, — 
A liappy winding-up of right and wrong, 

A quiet quenching of the vital fire; 

A shadow lying on a broken lyre, — 
A beggar's holiday, — a twilight long, — 
A landing-place where weary pilgrims 
throng, 

A tranquil terminus of w^ays that tire. 

Death is a respite from each vain regret. 
It drops the curtain, it concludes the play, 
It turns the lights out, and it leads the way, 

"When o'er the house-tops all the stars have 
set; 
Death is the epilogue to which we list, 
Just as the tired audience is dismissed. 

(200) 



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